E'A         -TH 
A 
A  A.    j  X 


;LORENCE 
IRWIN 


Poor  Dear  Theodora! 


By 

Florence  Irwin 

Author  of  "The  Road  to  Mecca,"  "The  Mask,"  etc. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Ube    fmicfcerbocfter    press 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 

BY 
FLORENCE  IRWIN 


Poor  Dear  Theodora! 


2136468 


Poor  Dear  Theodora! 


CHAPTER  I 

THEODORA  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  high-ceiled 
old  drawing-room  and  looked  about  her  with  an 
abhorrence  born  of  long-smothered  irritation. 
How  she  detested  the  task  before  her!  How  often 
in  past  years  had  she  already  performed  it,  till 
the  accumulated  essence  of  her  bitterness  had 
entered  as  iron  into  her  soul! 

Makeshift!  That  was  what  life  meant  to  her. 
That  was  what  it  had  always  meant.  That,  as 
far  as  she  could  see,  was  what  it  must  always 
mean.  Some  people  knew  how  to  get  the  things 
they  wanted;  Theodora  knew  only  how  to  do 
without  them.  A  useful  knowledge  perhaps — 
at  least,  so  she  had  always  been  taught — but  a 
makeshift,  at  that.  How  much  better  to  possess 
gloriously,  than  to  lack  gracefully! 

The  sunshine  of  an  August  morning  streamed 
into  the  shabby  room;  when  the  solemn  rite  of 
dusting  is  in  progress,  blinds  and  shades  must  be 

3 


thrown  open  and  the  protecting  veil  of  half- 
lights  abandoned  for  the  time  being. 

Theodora  knew  every  worn  spot  in  the  rug,  and 
just  how  it  must  be  covered  with  a  chair  or  a 
card  table.  (Aunt  Augusta  was  entertaining  at 
Bridge  this  afternoon.)  She  knew  how  a  vase  of 
flowers  must  be  carefully  disposed  so  as  to  hide 
the  crack  in  the  long  mirror  that  surmounted 
the  hideous  brown  slate  mantel.  The  mirror, 
in  .spite  of  its  chipped  and  tarnished  frame,  was 
a  beautiful  heirloom,  a  relic  of  a  day  when  taste 
was  so  clean  and  pure  (albeit  a  trifle  cold)  as  to 
make  one  gasp  in  wonder  at  the  later  transition 
to  horsehair,  and  plush,  and  slate  mantels  out- 
lined in  gilt,  and  hideous  brown-and-gold  wall- 
paper, and  atrocious  hanging  cabinets  with  glass 
doors  and  irregularly  placed  shelves,  and  "patent" 
rockers  upholstered  in  art  stuffs. 

All  of  these  things  abounded  in  the  room  where 
Theodora  stood,  duster  in  hand,  kitchen  apron 
reducing  her  figure  to  a  shapeless  mass.  But  the 
room  held  better  things  as  well.  One  of  them 
was  Theodora  herself.  In  spite  of  the  disfiguring 
chrysalis  which  shrouded  her,  it  was  abundantly 
evident  that  Theodora  was  a  very  good  thing 
indeed. 

Nor  was  she  the  only  one.  There  were  some 
beautiful  pieces  of  old  mahogany,  left  by  dead- 
and-gone  ancestors.  Portraits  of  certain  of  these 
ancestors  smiled,  or  simpered,  or  frowned  from 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  5 

the  walls,  their  canvas  surfaces  and  massive  gilt 
frames  blotting  out  much  of  the  objectionable 
wall-paper.  Dainty  miniatures  and  lovely  old- 
time  trinkets — scent  bottles,  Crown  Derby  bowls 
so  ancient  as  to  lack  marking,  painted  fans,  silver 
and  gold  snuff-boxes — filled  the  terrible  semi- 
modern  cabinets.  On  the  ugly  mantel  stood  a 
wonderful  old  pair  of  candlesticks  almost  too 
heavy  to  lift.  One  of  them,  indeed,  would  not 
bear  lifting;  it  broke  into  three  pieces  when  one 
tried.  Some  day,  when  eight  dollars  could  be 
spared  from  the  family  coffers,  it  was  to  be  mended. 
Then  the  chairs!  Those  of  them  that  lacked 
castors  must  be  pushed  into  corners.  The  good 
ones  must  be  carefully  disposed  with  regard  to 
the  insufficiencies  of  the  rug.  Being  too  few  in 
number  to  surround  three  card  tables,  they  must 
be  eked  out  by  others  carried  from  the  library  or 
from  upstairs.  The  tables  themselves  must  be 
brought  from  rooms  that  the  guests  would  not  en- 
ter. Aunt  Augusta  did  not  possess  the  green  baize 
tables  so  indispensable  to  most  card  hostesses 
— those  convenient  things  which  can  be  folded 
and  stood  away  betweenwhiles.  Every  table 
around  which  her  guests  would  cluster  must  first 
be  cleared  of  its  every-day  load,  then  dusted  and 
carried  into  the  drawing-room;  and  all  this,  with 
the  pleasant  assurance  that  when  the  party  was 
over  the  process  must  be  repeated  in  reversed 
order. 


6  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Theodora  gave  a  vicious  little  kick  to  an  up- 
turned corner  of  the  rug.  Why  did  people  insist 
on  wasting  time  on  such  labored  festivities?  Why 
didn't  they  just  say,  "It's  no  use.  We're  too 
poor.  Let's  stop  straining,"  and  let  it  go  at  that? 

A  voice  spoke  from  the  doorway.  It  was  a 
cool,  mocking,  rather  contemptuous  voice,  and 
it  always  raised  a  thousand  little  black  devils  in 
Theodora's  heart.  It  belonged  to  her  cousin 
Elise,  the  beauty  of  the  household. 

"When  you've  finished  here,  Theodora,"  said 
the  voice,  "  Meta  wants  you  in  the  kitchen.  She's 
making  the  sandwiches  and  the  cakes." 

Theodora  wheeled  sharply.  "Why  don't  you 
help  her?"  she  demanded. 

Elise  raised  arched  brows  of  amusement;  a 
smile  parted  her  thin  scarlet  lips,  revealing  a  row 
of  even  little  teeth.  There  was  nothing  she  loved 
better  than  to  rouse  irritation,  and  then  meet  it 
with  complacence. 

"I'm  attending  to  the  flowers,"  she  answered. 
"That  is  always  my  work,  as  you  very  well  know. 
Meta  said  to  ask  you  to  hurry.  Her  icing  will 
soon  be  ready." 

Elise  walked  through  the  French  window  to  the 
verandah  and  on  down  to  the  green  lawn  below, 
her  ornamental  garden-basket  swinging  from  one 
arm,  a  pair  of  scissors  suspended  from  a  ribbon  at 
her  waist.  She  was  a  perfect  model  of  summer 
daintiness,  slender  and  white-robed,  consciously 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  7 

picturesque  from  the  crown  of  her  broad  hat  to 
the  toes  of  her  snowy  slippers.  She  walked  buoy- 
antly, happy  to  have  left  a  sting  in  her  wake. 
Being  ineffably  bored  with  her  life,  she  found  her 
palliative  in  making  others  smart. 

Theodora  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  half- 
past  ten,  and  Elise  was  just  making  her  first  ap- 
pearance for  the  day.  She  never  ate  breakfast — 
that  dreary  eight  o'clock  function  which  Meta 
and  Theodora  dared  not  miss.  Aunt  Augusta 
was  particularly  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  tardy 
breakfast  appearances,  classing  them  with  femi- 
nine smoking  and  gambling  and  like  modern  evils. 
No  one,  save  her  younger  daughter  and  her  only 
son,  ever  attempted  to  infringe  her  rules. 

With  the  rankling  picture  of  Elise' s  loveliness 
still  fresh  in  her  mind,  Theodora  walked  over  to 
the  mantel  mirror  and  stood  gazing  moodily  into 
its  depths — though  for  the  moodiness  there  would 
seem  to  have  been  small  cause.  Theodora  must 
have  been  very  far  up  front  indeed,  when  good 
looks  were  given  out.  Her  beauty,  being  struc- 
tural, was  of  the  sort  that  would  outlive  youth. 
Its  chief  point  was  an  exquisitely  shaped  head, 
wonderfully  set  on  strong  boyish  shoulders — 
shoulders  that  would  stand  small  chance  of  being 
relieved  of  the  weight  of  their  own  burdens,  for 
the  very  reason  that  they  looked  so  thoroughly 
competent  to  assume  any  load.  Of  quite  a  differ- 
ent type  were  the  shoulders  of  Elise;  they  were 


8 

sensuous,  consciously  appealing.  It  was  a  safe 
guess  that  they  would  slip  from  under  every  yoke, 
would  shift  every  burden  onto  some  gladly  prof- 
fered masculine  back.  Theodora's  shoulders  as- 
serted independence  and  pride;  those  of  her  cousin 
demanded  worship. 

Elise  had  a  thin-lipped  little  mouth,  as  scarlet 
as  a  pomegranate  flower;  Theodora's  mouth  was 
larger  and  more  generous — but  alas,  no  whit  less 
stubborn.  Elise  had  hair  of  dead  gold,  while 
Theodora's  was  as  red-brown  and  as  glossy  as  a 
horse-chestnut  just  out  of  its  burr.  Her  hazel 
eyes  were  deep  and  clear  and  honest.  On  that 
one  count  she  admitted  her  superiority  over  her 
beautiful  cousin.  If  Elise  had  a  weak  point  it 
was  her  eyes;  they  were  small  and  pointed  and 
shallow.  When  she  talked  to  a  woman  her  eyes 
gazed  straight — but  they  narrowed  to  agate 
points;  when  she  talked  to  a  man  (no  matter 
what  his  age  or  station),  her  look  was  oblique,  or 
downcast,  or  momentarily  revealing.  Her  natural 
attitude  toward  men  was  that  of  the  cocette,  while 
Theodora's  was  that  of  a  pal,  or  a  chum. 

The  subject  of  beauty  bothered  Theodora  no 
little.  ' '  What, ' '  she  often  thought  angrily,  ' '  what 
is  it  that  counts,  about  looks?  I  used  to  think 
that  if  you  were  pretty,  you'd  be  attactive;  I 
used  to  believe  that  good  looks  were  the  thing 
that  made  the  difference.  But  they're  not.  In 
some  ways,  Elise  is  prettier  than  I;  in  others, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  9 

I'm  certainly  prettier  than  she.  Yet  she'll  go  a 
thousand  miles  where  I  can't  go  an  inch — and  I 
don't  even  know  the  reason.  It  doesn't  matter 
that  she's  tricky,  while  I'm  not;  it  doesn't 
matter  that  I  love  honesty  while  she  hates  it.  I 
believe  that  people  actually  like  to  be  cheated.  I 
believe  that  good  looks  don't  matter  one  iota,  after 
all.  It's  the  kind  of  looks  you  have,  and  the  way 
you  use  them.  And  if  that's  so,  I  think  life's  a 
perfect  mess." 

Theodora  said  truly  that  she  loved  honesty. 
It  was  her  passion.  Where  she  failed  to  find  it 
she  turned  adamant.  In  one  sense  she  had  a 
right  to  demand  it,  in  that  she  most  certainly 
gave  it.  She  was  as  honest  as  sunlight — and  as 
uncompromising;  as  wholesome,  but  often  as 
trying.  A  hardness  as  of  steel  possessed  her 
whenever  she  overtook  deceit  in  any  form — and 
like  many  another  worthy  trait,  her  honesty  was 
sometimes  unattractive.  Compromise  is  a  shifty 
and  a  dangerous  thing,  but  a  thing,  nevertheless, 
that  few  of  us  escape.  To  Theodora  Winthrop, 
compromise  was  still  anathema,  and  she  faced  the 
hard  problem  which  conscientious  youth  must 
always  face.  Being  youth,  it  possesses  neither 
philosophy  nor  patience,  and  at  considerable 
pains  and  cost  it  strives  to  achieve  worth — only 
to  watch  careless  lightness  reap  the  harvest  of 
practically  universal  admiration.  The  result  is 
generally  one  of  three  things :  compromise,  jealousy, 


io  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

hardness.  Unfortunately,  compromise  eventually 
honeycombs  character,  while  jealousy  engenders 
bitterness  and  spite.  Hardness,  however,  may  be 
but  a  passing  phase,  and  not  a  permanent  trait. 

To  Theodora  had  fallen  this  hardness — but  it 
was  of  the  conscience  only.  So  tender  a  heart 
had  she  that  pity  never  knocked  vainly  and  sym- 
pathy often  became  an  ache.  Theodora  honestly 
considered  herself  mushily  soft;  she  felt  that, 
figuratively  speaking,  she  lacked  spine,  and  that 
her  constant  effort  must  be  to  acquire  it.  And, 
in  the  meantime,  everyone  else  admired  Theodora's 
splendid  honesty  and  self-reliance,  but  prayed 
that  her  hardness  might  prove  to  be  merely  the 
hardness  of  youth.  Poor  dear  Theodora! 

On  this  particular  summer  morning,  her  task 
completed  in  the  drawing-room,  she  betook  her- 
self to  the  kitchen — only  to  be  once  more  reminded 
of  the  subject  of  personal  beauty.  By  the  table 
in  the  hot  kitchen  stood  Theodora's  oldest  cousin, 
Meta,  the  picture  of  anxiety  and  unattratuiveness. 
Meta  was  twenty-five  and  looked  thirty.  She 
had  a  long  nose  and  a  poor  complexion.  Though 
she  was  the  soul  of  goodness,  in  all  her  life  no  jot 
of  real  joy  had  ever  fallen  to  her  lot.  Like  Car- 
lyle's  wife,  if  no  one  upbraided  her  she  considered 
herself  praised.  She  was  born  to  the  r61e  of  meek 
drudge — and  a  necessary  r61e  it  must  be,  unless 
nature  errs  a  prodigious  number  of  times! 

At  Meta's  side  sat  a  faded  pretty  woman,  busily 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  n 

icing  small  cakes.  At  sight  of  her,  Theodora 
stood  stock-still. 

"Mother,"  she  cried  sharply,  "what  are  you 
doing  here?  You  go  straight  upstairs,  and  I'll 
ice  those  cakes.  This  is  no  place  for  you,  with 
that  headache."  (It  was  one  of  Theodora's  mis- 
fortunes that  when  she  was  most  tingling  with 
love  and  protectiveness,  she  sometimes  sounded 
sharpest.) 

"Now,  my  dear,"  deprecated  Mrs.  Winthrop, 
"don't  get  excited.  This  isn't  hurting  me  in  the 
least.  I'm  feeling  much  better  anyhow." 

"  You're  as  white  as  a  sheet,"  insisted  the  daugh- 
ter. "Isn't  she,  Meta?  And  just  look  at  those 
circles  under  her  eyes!  She  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"I  begged  her  not  to  come  down,"  answered 
Meta  in  a  tired  voice.  "  Do  go  up  and  rest,  Aunt 
Mollie.  Theodora  will  help  me  now." 

"No,  it  does  me  good  to  have  a  little  something 
to  do,"  replied  her  aunt,  meekly  but  obstinately. 
Mrs.  W:  ithrop  always  insisted  that  her  daughter's 
stubbornness  was  a  paternal  inheritance.  "Had 
your  dear  father  lived  to  see  you  grow  up,"  she 
was  wont  to  say,  "I  fear  you  might  have  clashed 
sadly!"  Theodora,  barely  able  to  remember  her 
father,  could  form  no  judgment  as  to  his  disposi- 
tion and  was  therefore  unable  to  gainsay  the 
charge.  But  she  knew  from  experience  that  the 
obstinacy  of  meekness  can  be  at  least  as  great  as 
that  of  assertiveness. 


12  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"What  is  Aunt  Augusta  doing?"  she  now  de- 
manded aggressively  and  unnecessarily.  She  well 
knew  what  her  aunt  was  doing — slave-driving, 
relegating  to  herself  the  easy  tasks  and  the  domi- 
nant position,  while  she  turned  her  elder  daughter 
into  a  cook,  her  sister  into  a  scullery-maid,  and 
her  niece  into  a  charwoman. 

"She's  up  in  her  room,  tying  up  the  prizes  and 
writing  the  place-cards, ' '  responded  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

''Why  don't  you  go  and  help  her,  then?" 

"I  am  more  useful  here,  my  dear.  Permit  me 
to  be  the  judge  of  my  own  tasks." 

Seeing  that  the  case  was  hopeless,  Theodora 
left  her  mother  with  the  cakes  and  herself  took 
over  the  sandwiches.  She  sat  in  tight-lipped  dis- 
approving silence,  and  her  mother  sat  in  hurt 
meekness — so  that  these  two  who  adored  each 
other  and  who  would  have  died  without  question 
one  for  the  other,  were  once  more  in  disaccord. 
Meta,  for  her  part,  was  much  too  abstracted  to 
talk;  she  well  knew  that  any  flaw  in  the  culinary 
end  of  her  mother's  party  would  reflect  on  her 
own  devoted  head.  It  was  therefore  a  very  silent 
trio  that  worked  on  until  lunch  time. 

Luncheon  was  a  hurried  and  meagre  meal. 
The  party  was  to  begin  at  three,  so  that  the  guests 
might  be  expected  at  any  time  after  half-past 
two.  In  a  community  where  festivities  are  few, 
punctuality  ceases  to  be  a  virtue  and  becomes  a 
self-indulgence. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  13 

"Mollie,"  said  Mrs.  Charrington,  turning  to 
her  youngest  sister  (Aunt  Augusta  took  no  small 
pride  in  her  name.  "Augusta  Charrington," 
she  was  wont  to  say,  "is  a  name  of  which  no  one 
need  be  ashamed,") — "Mollie,  I  shall  not  need 
you  at  the  tables  this  afternoon,  after  all.  The 
Misses  Duncan  sent  their  chauffeur  over  with  a 
note.  They  have  had  a  guest  arrive  unexpectedly. 
Miss  Janet  wrote  that,  with  my  permission,  the 
guest  would  take  her  place  here,  as  they  could 
hardly  leave  her  at  home  alone.  I  replied  that 
I  had  a  vacant  place  at  one  of  my  tables  and  would 
certainly  expect  all  three  of  them.  So  you  needn't 
play,  after  all." 

Theodora  bridled.  She  knew  that  the  party 
was  virtually  given  for  those  queens,  the  Misses 
Duncan.  In  a  community  where  everyone  else 
was  living  on  the  traditions  of  past  grandeur, 
they  alone  possessed  present  wealth  as  well,— 
present  wealth  and  fashion  and  ancestry  that 
reached  back  unimpeachably  into  the  dim  dark 
ages.  In  the  matter  of  ancestry,  they  were  no 
whit  ahead  of  the  rest  of  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  old  Waverly .  The  place  bristled  with  ancestors ; 
it  demanded  them;  it  hugged  them  to  its  cold 
heart.  Like  the  ogres  of  old,  it  lived  on  blood. 

But  apart  from  blood  and  with  the  exception  of 
the  Misses  Duncan,  Waverly  had  little  else  of 
which  to  boast — which  probably  made  it  only  the 
more  appreciative  of  its  pair  of  prosperous  spin- 


14  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

sters.  There  may  be  those  to  \vhom  an  atmos- 
phere of  luxury  is  offensive,  but  certainly  none  of 
them  lived  in  Waverly.  While  the  rest  of  Waver- 
lyites  trudged  afoot  on  roads  that  were  muddy 
or  dusty  as  the  case  might  be,  or  rode  over  them 
in  rarely  hired  hacks,  Miss  Duncan  and  Miss 
Janet  Duncan  dashed  around  in  motors  and  victo- 
rias. They  accepted  invitations  to  afternoon 
tea,  and  responded  with  invitations  to  dinners 
and  luncheons  where  the  food  was  truly  epicu- 
rean and  where  even  champagne  flowed — albeit 
in  perfectly  respectable  quantities.  They  reigned 
like  veritable  sovereigns  for  seven  months  of 
the  year,  and  then  at  the  end  of  each  November 
they  fared  away  to  the  gay  city,  leaving  Waverly 
plunged  in  gloom  and  mud  and  snow,  to  doze 
until  they  should  reawaken  it  the  following  May 
— wealth  being  able  to  migrate,  while  poverty 
must  hibernate. 

Therefore,  Theodora  Winthrop  realized  full 
well  that  it  was  sheer  idiocy  to  attempt  to  cham- 
pion her  own  mother  against  the  Misses  Duncan. 
But  Theodora  was  well  used  to  butting  her  head 
against  the  stone  wall  of  tradition.  She  proceeded 
to  do  it  once  more. 

"I  don't  see  why  Mother  has  to  be  at  the  beck 
and  call  of  an  unknown  guest  of  the  Misses  Dun- 
can," she  began  aggressively.  At  her  tone  Elise, 
who  had  been  looking  very  bored,  brightened 
perceptibly.  Mrs.  Winthrop,  however,  rushed 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  15 

to  the  rescue.  It  was  strange  how  with  all  her 
meekness,  she  could  always  be  sharply  assertive 
with  her  daughter — the  one  being  whom  she 
loved  devotedly.  She  now  frowned  and  coughed. 

"I'm  only  too  glad  to  be  released  from  playing," 
she  said.  "As  you  know,  Augusta,  I  care  nothing 
for  it,  and  I  shall  be  delighted  to  lie  down — that 
is,  unless  you  want  me  to  help  receive  your  guests?  " 

"No,  that  won't  be  necessary.  You  will  ap- 
pear at  tea  time,  of  course?" 

' '  Oh  certainly.     What  shall  I  wear ? ' ' 

"That  grenadine.  Meta,  I  have  put  out  a 
lace  scarf  of  mine  for  you.  It  will  cover  that  blue 
muslin  very  nicely.  Be  careful  not  to  get  anything 
on  it;  cleaning  is  so  expensive  now.  What  will 
you  wear,  darling?"  (This  to  Elise.) 

"My  black-and-white." 

Mrs.  Charrington's  face  clouded. 

"I  quite  hoped  you  would  choose  that  pretty 
pink,"  she  said  suggestively.  "It  is  so  very  be- 
coming and  makes  such  a  sweet  contrast  with 
Meta's  blue.  You  seem  so  very  young  for  black." 
(Elise  was  twenty-three — two  years  the  senior 
of  Theodora.) 

"No,  Mother,"  she  answered  decisively,  "I  hate 
that  pink,  as  you  know.  And  I  can't  be  expected 
to  match  up  my  clothes  with  Meta's.  The  black- 
and-white  is  the  only  thing  I  own  that  is  fit  to 
put  on.  Heaven  knows,  my  wardrobe  is  not 
overstocked." 


16  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Just  as  you  like,  dear,"  rejoined  her  mother 
hastily.  Being  no  fool,  she  knew  when  she  was 
worsted.  She  turned  to  Theodora. 

"And  you?"  she  asked  icily,  remembering  her 
niece's  late  lack  of  respect. 

Now  Theodora  possessed  exactly  one  muslin 
frock  that  was  eligible  for  an  afternoon  function; 
but  family  tradition  demanded  that  poverty  be 
airily  disregarded  in  conversation.  Before  the 
girl  could  reply,  her  mother  rushed  to  the  breach. 

"Don't  you  think  she  might  wear  that  pretty 
plaid  muslin,  Augusta?"  she  smiled. 

"Yes.  And  let  her  wear  the  white  ribbons.  I 
like  them  better  than  the  yellow." 

Fate  had  been  kind  after  all.  One  thing  Theo- 
dora could  do  to  assert  her  independence.  She 
could  wear  the  yellow  ribbons. 

Poor  dear  Theodora! 

The  pleasant  meal  ended.  Everyone  went  to 
dress.  Elise  and  Theodora  were  expected  to  be 
on  the  porch,  picturesquely  interested  in  books  or 
fancy  work,  before  the  possible  arrival  of  any 
guest.  Thus  could  all  comers  be  conducted  into 
the  house  without  the  services  of  the  door-bell 
and  the  slatternly  negress  who  was  the  only  ser- 
vant the  establishment  afforded.  Meta's  place 
was  in  the  kitchen ;  from  there  she  would  dispense 
the  food,  which  was  to  be  daintily  carried  in  by 
her  sister  and  cousin.  Only  at  the  very  end 
would  Meta  appear — just  in  time  to  give  the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  17 

impression    that    she   was    entirely   a    person   of 
leisure. 

The  party  proved  hardly  more  of  a  success  than 
the  luncheon.  Of  course,  everyone  said  it  was 
quite  lovely,  but  there  remained  an  inward  con- 
sciousness of  failure. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Misses  Duncan  and  their 
guest  won  none  of  the  prizes — those  beautiful 
centrepieces  so  daintily  embroidered  by  Meta, 
whose  handiwork  converted  the  most  inexpensive 
of  linen  and  floss  into  gems  of  real  worth.  Upon 
this  occasion,  however,  the  gems  had  been  carried 
away  by  the  least  attractive  of  the  guests.  Aunt 
Augusta  was  naturally  nettled.  Her  idea  was 
to  give  to  those  who  already  had  the  most. 

Then  Miss  Duncan's  guest,  Mrs.  Neilson, 
had  been  almost  rude.  In  a  person  of  less  im- 
portance it  would  have  amounted  to  absolute 
rudeness.  She  had  quite  frankly  expressed  her 
surprise  to  find  people  still  absorbed  in  Bridge  in 
August,  1915;  she  had  been  shocked  that  Waverly 
boasted  no  Red  Cross  chapter,  and  that  it  had  not 
taken  madly  to  knitting;  in  fact,  she  talked  almost 
exclusively  about  the  European  War,  a  subject 
in  which  Waverly  was  but  faintly  interested.  It 
was  so  very  disgusting,  and  so  expensive,  and  so 
far  away. 

Miss  Janet  Duncan  had  complimented  Theodora 
on  her  yellow  ribbons,  which  the  girl  had  had  the 


1 8  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

temerity  to  don.  They  had  been  pronounced 
particularly  becoming  by  the  great  local  criterion; 
and  on  top  of  that,  Mrs.  Neilson  had  added  insult 
to  injury  by  taking  a  noticeably  marked  interest 
in  the  stubborn  niece  of  her  hostess. 

Theodora,  on  her  part,  had  been  disgusted  by 
the  very  evident  efforts  of  Elise  to  ingratiate 
herself  with  Miss  Duncan  and  Miss  Janet.  Well 
did  she  understand  her  cousin's  motive.  The  two 
spinsters  made  a  long  motor  tour  each  September, 
and  Elise  regarded  herself  as  a  desirable  guest 
for  the  approaching  one. 

With  all  Meta's  care,  her  ices  had  been  a  little 
soft.  Fewer  than  usual  had  been  eaten,  and  in  a 
spirit  of  deep  depression  she  had  put  the  remainder 
back  into  the  freezer  to  harden. 

And  last  but  not  least,  Ned  Charrington  had 
not  come  home  to  supper — making  the  third  time 
in  less  than  ten  days.  There  were  two  deep  lines 
of  worry  between  his  mother's  eyes,  and  her  lesser 
annoyances  were  seemingly  forgotten. 

"Did  Ned  say  anything  to  any  of  you  about 
staying  late  tonight?"  she  asked.  But  at  the 
universal  negative,  she  hastened  to  excuse  him. 

"  I  know  they're  keeping  him  very  hard  at  work," 
she  said.  "Miss  Janet  Duncan  said  she  thought 
it  was  perfectly  splendid  for  the  boy  to  put  in 
his  vacation  this  way." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Ned  Charrington's  college 
course  was  a  financial  burden  which  his  widowed 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  19 

mother  could  ill  afford  to  bear;  and  when  in 
addition  to  its  legitimate  expenses  there  came 
others  which  nearly  trebled  them,  the  matter 
became  of  really  grave  moment.  Ned  insisted 
that  it  would  be  better  to  forego  college  entirely 
than  to  forfeit  fraternity  life,  and  it  was  to  that 
that  he  attributed  his  bills.  Finally,  on  his  own 
initiative,  he  had  procured  a  position  in  a  bank- 
ing house  in  the  near-by  city,  thus  rendering  his 
present  vacation  a  source  of  income.  There  was 
nothing  to  make  a  summer  in  Waverly  attractive 
to  him  anyhow,  and  he  said  that  he  got  more  fun 
working,  going  and  coming  by  train  each  day, 
than  by  sitting  around  in  the  "dead  hole"  in 
which  Fate  had  seen  fit  to  place  his  home. 

As  the  family  rose  from  the  supper  table,  Meta 
seemed  to  pluck  her  courage  in  both  hands. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "Dr.  Sewall  thought  he 
might  drop  in  for  a  moment  this  evening.  Would 
it  be  all  right  for  me  to  serve  the  rest  of  the  ice- 
cream? I  don't  believe  it  will  keep  till  tomorrow." 

There  was  so  odd  a  note  in  her  voice  that  Theo- 
dora glanced  up  quickly.  She  was  surprised  to 
see  a  vivid  blush  overspreading  M eta's  sallow  face. 

"Good  gracious,"  she  thought  in  amazement, 
"is  that  the  way  the  wind  blows?"  The  idea  of 
Meta  being  interested  in  any  man  was  absolutely 
incongruous.  Everyone  knew  that  she  had  been 
faithfully  helping  this  new  physician  with  his 
poor  patients,  ever  since  his  arrival  in  Waverly, 


2O  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

but  that  was  entirely  natural.  Meta  lived  for 
others;  she  had  a  great  gift  at  charity,  and  had 
always  donetas  much  as  her  limited  means  allowed. 
Such  a  thing  as  a  love  motive,  however,  was  a 
totally  new  development. 

Mrs.  Charrington  gave  the  desired  permission, 
and  then  said  she  thought  she  would  go  to  her 
room — an  example  which  her  sister  speedily  fol- 
lowed. It  had  been  a  trying  day. 

The  three  younger  women  betook  themselves 
to  the  wide  verandah  where  they  were  presently 
jpined  by  Dr.  Sewall.  It  was  his  first  social  call 
at  the  house,  and  Theodora  looked  at  him  with 
new  eyes.  In  spite  of  Waverly's  almost  total 
lack  of  eligible  young  men,  she  could  not  at  all 
see  him  in  the  light  of  a  desirable,  or  even  a  pos- 
sible, suitor.  He  was  tall  and  angular  and  serious 
and  quiet,  and  even  a  little  awkward.  But 
Waverly  had  been  assured  on  the  subject  of  his 
ancestry,  so  that  if  Meta  should  choose  to  grow 
fond  of  him  there  could  be  no  legitimate  objection. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  difficult  to  imagine  those 
two  as  the  principals  in  a  love  affair. 

Elise  was  unusually  silent.  She  sat  in  profile 
to  the  rest  of  the  group  and  scarcely  even  replied 
to  direct  questions.  During  her  sister's  absence 
on  a  quest  for  ices  and  cakes,  she  turned  a  little 
more  directly  to  the  guest  and  murmured  a  sen- 
tence or  two.  It  so  happened  that  her  scarf 
slipped  from  her  shoulders  and  that  she  stooped 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  21 

to  regain  it  at  the  same  moment  that  the  doctor 
sprang  to  restore  it.  There  was  a  confused  mo- 
ment of  intermingled  heads  and  hands,  of  laughter 
and  apologies,  and  then  the  lacy  trifle  was  once 
more  properly  adjusted  over  those  shoulders  of 
Elise. 

Soon  she  rose,  saying  that  she  felt  the  dampness. 
Just  as  she  passed  Dr.  Sewall's  chair  her  ankle 
turned,  and  it  was  only  by  dint  of  grasping  his 
shoulder  that  she  escaped  a  fall.  However,  she 
was  very  brave  about  it  and  refused  all  help, 
though  she  limped  perceptibly  as  she  disappeared 
through  the  long  window  and  into  the  dim-lit 
drawing-room.  Then  there  floated  out  upon  the 
night  the  sounds  of  soft  music;  Elise  was  playing 
some  plaintive  old  Scotch  ballads — those  simple 
and  compelling  airs  that  seem  never  to  lose  their 
appeal. 

Theodora  detested  ballads,  having  had  an  over- 
dose of  them  all  her  life;  but  she  could  not  help 
admiring  the  tactful  way  in  which  Elise  had 
effaced  herself.  It  had  been  done,  of  course,  in 
order  to  give  Meta  her  chance  of  a  tete-d-tete. 
Theodora  must  not  linger  and  spoil  everything. 
Murmuring  something  about  "letters  to  write," 
she  said  good-night — but  not  without  a  feeling  of 
awkwardness  and  self-consciousness.  Any  man 
must  see  through  such  a  ruse.  Even  though  he 
liked  it,  it  was  surely  an  insult  to  his  intelligence. 

What    was   Theodora's    astonishment,    as    she 


22  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

passed  a  turn  in  the  dark  old  stairway,  to  see 
Meta  and  her  guest  enter  the  drawing-room  and 
to  hear  the  doctor  say  something  about  his  fond- 
ness for  music.  Rather  constrainedly,  he  took  a 
seat  near  the  piano.  Elise  went  on  playing; 
she  never  even  turned  her  head.  Yet  for  some 
unknown  reason  Theodora  was  assailed  with  a 
sudden  desire  to  murder  her.  But  after  all,  what 
had  Elise  done?  Nothing  but  get  out  of  the  way. 
Her  most  severe  critic  could  not  have  accused  her 
of  trying  to  attract  attention  or  monopolize  the 
conversation.  At  all  events,  the  doctor  soon 
went  home  and  the  house  grew  silent.  Meta 
stopped  at  Theodora's  door  to  say  that  Ned 
must  have  decided  to  spend  the  night  in  town,  as 
he  had  done  once  or  twice  before.  There  was 
but  one  more  train  and  that  was  not  due  till 
nearly  two.  He  surely  would  not  come  at  that 
hour.  So  his  sister  had  locked  the  house  and  put 
out  the  lights.  She  looked  pale  and  weary  as  she 
mounted  to  her  hot  little  room  on  the  third  floor. 
Tired,  as  she  was,  Theodora  could  not  sleep. 
She  lay  staring  into  the  darkness,  going  over  in 
memory  the  petty  events  of  the  day  just  passed, 
detesting  them  vehemently,  wondering  how  many 
more  such  days  her  life  must  hold.  (A  desperate 
plan  had  been  forming  of  late  in  the  back  of 
Theodora's  brain,  but  it  was  too  wild  and  impos- 
sible to  give  rise  to  much  real  hope.  Of  course, 
they'd  never  let  her  do  it.) 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  23 

Suddenly  she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  alert, 
listening  intently.  Surely  that  was  a  whistle 
under  her  window! 

Theodora's  room  was  a  small  one  at  the  back 
of  the  house — the  four  main  second-story  bedrooms 
being  used  by  Mrs.  Charrington,  Mrs.  Winthrop, 
Elise,  and  Ned.  Meta  was  upstairs  and  front. 
So,  too,  was  the  servant — on  the  other  side  of  the 
front.  Theodora  alone  occupied  the  back  wing. 
Beneath  her  were  the  kitchen  and  pantry,  above 
her  the  huge  storeroom. 

As  she  listened,  the  sound  which  had  roused  her 
was  repeated.  It  was  certainly  a  whistle.  She 
hurried  to  her  window  and  looked  out. 

"Brownie,"  said  a  hoarse  whisper  ("Brownie" 
was  Ned  Charrington' s  pet  name  for  the  cousin 
of  whom  he  was  so  fond),  "Brownie,  tha'  you? 
You 'wake?" 

"Is  it  you,  Ned?" 

"Yes.     Come  down  'n'open  door." 

How  oddly  he  spoke!  "Are  you  sick?"  she 
demanded  in  fright. 

"No.  Not  sick.  Come  down  'n'open  door,  I 
say." 

Trembling  violently,  Theodora  donned  a  dress- 
ing-gown and  crept  down  the  back  stairs.  How 
they  creaked  and  groaned!  Surely  the  whole 
household  must  soon  be  roused. 

As  she  opened  the  door,  Ned  lurched  through 
and  almost  fell  on  her.  Regaining  his  balance 


24  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

with  an  effort,  he  propped  himself  against  the  wall 
and  stood  grinning  inanely  at  her.  He  looked 
ghastly  and  unnatural. 

"Kep'  askin'  you  come  down  'n'open  door,"  he 
repeated  foolishly.  And  at  that  moment,  Theo- 
dora became  conscious  of  a  horrid  odour  and  real- 
ized in  a  flash  what  was  the  trouble.  To  her 
mind,  murder  could  have  been  no  worse.  Never 
before  in  the  entire  course  of  her  narrow  and 
sheltered  life  had  she  had  speech  with  a  drunken 
man. 

"Ned,"  she  said  wildly  in  a  voice  that  was  low 
and  tense,  "Ned,  look  at  me.  Look  straight  in 
my  eyes.  You  must  come  upstairs  quietly.  Do 
you  understand?  They're  all  asleep — 

"All  'sleep?     Tha's  good.     Tha's  fine." 

"Yes,  and  I'll  help  you  to  your  room.  Here, 
sit  down  on  this  chair  and  let  me  slip  your  shoes 
off.  Now  wait  a  moment — I'm  going  to  wet  a 
towel  and  wipe  your  face  with  cold  water.  .  .  . 
There,  doesn't  that  feel  better?  .  .  .  Hush! 
Listen,  Ned,  I  say  hush.  .  .  .  Now  lean  on  me. 
Give  me  the  shoes,  I'll  carry  them.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Ned,  can't  you  step  more  quietly?  .  .  .  There, 
don't  try  to  talk.  Don't  say  a  word.  I  know. 
I  know  everything  you  want  to  tell  me.  Just  be 
quiet.  .  .  .  Hush!  .  .  .  Don't  you  understand 
me,  Ned?  I  say  hush!" 

Her  sibilant  whisper  seemed  at  last  to  penetrate 
the  boy's  befogged  consciousness.  Painfully,  they 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  25 

made  the  perilous  ascent  together.  Just  as  they 
reached  the  threshold  of  Ned's  room,  Mrs.  Char- 
rington's  door  opened  and  she  came  out.  In  a 
long  white  wrapper  and  with  her  pale  hair  braided 
down  her  back,  she  looked  like  a  wraith.  By  the 
light  of  the  dim  night  taper  and  before  she  could 
command  the  mask  that  almost  immediately 
covered  her  frozen  features,  Theodora  caught  a 
clear  view  of  her  ravaged  face.  Never  had  the 
girl  pitied  anyone  so  much!  Never  again  would 
she  feel  quite  the  same  hard  dislike  of  her  aunt. 
Poor,  poor  Aunt  Augusta!  She  had  evidently 
spoken  to  a  drunken  man  before,  and  unless  she 
were  singularly  fortunate  she  was  in  a  fair  way 
to  speak  to  one  many  times  again. 

"I'll  attend  to  Ned,  Theodora,"  she  said,  with 
lips  that  seemed  too  stiff  to  move.  "He  has  had 
several  of  these  attacks  lately.  His  father  had 
them.  It  is  his  heart.  I  shall  consult  a  doctor 
if  they  continue.  .  .  .  You  may  go  to  bed  now. 
Thank  you  for  what  you  have  done." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Augusta,  can't  I  help  you?"  whis- 
pered the  girl  in  an  agony  of  compassion.  She 
scarcely  recognized  her  aunt  in  this  wild-eyed 
shaking  woman. 

"No.  I  understand  the  case.  Thank  you, 
just  the  same.  Go  to  bed  now.  .  .  .  Theodora?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Augusta?" 

"I'm  sure  I  need  not  ask  you  to  speak  of  this 
to  no  one." 


26  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Oh,  Aunt  Augusta!  Of  course  not!  How 
could  I?" 

"Very  well.  That  is  all.  Thank  you.  Good- 
night." 

Mrs.  Charrington  turned  to  the  prostrate  form 
of  her  son,  who  had  tumbled  across  the  bed  the 
moment  he  got  inside  the  room  and  who  was  now 
breathing  heavily.  Noiselessly  she  closed  the 
door,  leaving  Theodora  in  the  corridor  outside. 

The  girl  felt  weak  and  frightened.  She  crept 
back  to  her  own  room  and  into  bed.  There  she 
lay,  trembling  like  a  leaf  in  a  blast.  After  a  time, 
she  began  to  sob  quietly.  How  awful  this  thing 
was!  How  terribly  it  added  to  the  dilemma  in 
which  she  had  so  long  felt  herself  entangled! 

Ever  since  she  was  seventeen,  Theodora  had 
been  certain  that  there  was  nothing  either  in  her 
present  life  nor  in  her  future  outlook  to  warrant 
happiness  nor  hope.  The  inferior  position  to 
which  Aunt  Augusta  always  relegated  her  younger 
sister  and  her  niece  was  galling  to  the  last  degree. 
The  poverty  of  the  combined  household  was 
another  sore  point.  Someone  must  get  out  and 
earn  money.  Naturally,  it  could  not  be  either 
of  the  two  older  women;  it  would  never  be  Elise; 
Meta  could  not  be  spared — most  of  the  burdens 
fell  on  her  shoulders  as  it  was.  Theodora  had 
long  yearned  to  break  away  from  her  confines, 
to  fare  out  into  the  world  and  to  try  her  luck. 
But  she  well  knew  with  what  horror  the  proposi- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  27 

tion  would  be  received  by  her  conservative  family. 
She'd  never  be  able  to  persuade  them — she,  the 
youngest  of  them  all,  and  the  one  whose  ideas  they 
most  deplored !  She  would  only  succeed  in  butting 
her  head  once  more  against  the  stone  wall  of 
tradition. 

Whenever  this  dreary  certitude  had  weighed 
upon  her,  she  had  been  wont  to  comfort  herself 
with  the  thought  that  Ned's  college  course  would 
soon  be  over,  and  he  would  be  able  to  help. 
He  was  such  a  dear  sweet-natured  boy  (he  and 
Theodora  had  always  been  special  chums;  they 
both  detested  Elise,  they  both  pitied  Meta,  and 
they  both  kicked  against  the  Waverly  pricks) .  Just 
to  have  Ned  living  at  home  again  would  be  a  joy. 
And  then,  if  he  should  happen  to  be  one  of  those 
fortunates  to  whom  money-making  comes  easily, 
what  a  difference  it  would  make  in  all  their  lives! 

But  now!  How  changed  the  outlook  by  to- 
night's unhappy  experience!  And  it  evidently 
wasn't  a  first  offence.  Aunt  Augusta's  whole 
attitude  proved  that.  Ned  was  to  become  another 
financial  burden  instead  of  a  prop.  In  that  case, 
who  was  left  to  assume  the  role  of  prop,  save 
Theodora  herself? 

"I'm  the  only  one  to  go  out  into  the  world,'* 
thought  the  girl.  "Every  day  shows  that  more 
plainly.  And  I  want  to.  I'm  not  afraid — not  the 
least  bit.  The  only  thing  that  frightens  me  is 
the  thought  of  staying  on  here  forever,  doing 


28  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

nothing,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  getting 
nothing.  Then,  presently,  along  will  come  old 
age  and  life  will  be  over.  And  what  a  life!  I 
won't  be  tied  down  to  it — it  isn't  fair!  But  how 
can  I  make  them  see  it?  How  can  I  get  away?" 
Round  and  round  in  a  footless  circle  did  her 
thoughts  run  till  finally,  spent  by  shock  and  worry, 
she  fell  into  blessed  slumber. 


CHAPTER  II 

THEODORA  awoke  the  next  morning  to  a  feeling 
of  depression — one  of  those  mysterious  mental 
hang-overs  with  which  everyone  is  familiar.  It 
was  but  a  moment  before  its  cause  recurred  to  her 
with  full  force.  The  night  had  failed  to  soften  its 
shock.  She  wondered  what  had  happened  after 
she  fell  asleep,  and  how  long  Aunt  Augusta  had 
kept  watch  over  that  terrible  bedside. 

But  quite  apart  from  Ned's  tragedy,  there  was 
another  vague  trouble  in  the  air.  What  was  it? 
Ah,  yes,  now  she  remembered.  She  was  booked 
to  spend  the  day  in  the  hot  city  with  Elise,  who  had 
shopping  to  do  and  who  was  considered  too  beauti- 
ful and  precious  to  fare  unattended  into  the  haunts 
of  men.  Theodora  detested  these  shopping  bouts. 
The  selfishness  of  her  cousin  was  always  at  top 
pitch.  After  a  broken  night,  the  coming  day  was 
bound  to  be  trying. 

Elise  could  get  up  to  breakfast  when  she  had  an 
object.  She  appeared,  cool  and  lovely  in  a  fresh 
holland  frock  with  white  gloves,  hat,  and  shoes. 
Theodora  herself  had  a  similar  gown  and  would 
have  liked  to  wear  it,  but  her  cousin  always  ob- 

29 


3°  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

jected  to  "dressing  like  twins."  Ordinarily  this 
would  not  have  deterred  Theodora,  particularly 
as  her  frock  had  been  bought  first  and  Elise — 
taking  a  fancy  to  it — had  copied  it.  But  today, 
with  nerves  on  end,  the  prospect  of  unnecessary 
bickering  did  not  appeal.  With  a  sigh,  Theodora 
donned  her  only  other  possible  choice — a  darker 
and  thicker  gown — and  relinquished  physical  com- 
fort in  favour  of  mental. 

Aunt  Augusta  was  already  seated  at  the  table 
when  she  went  down.  Theodora  threw  her  a 
quick  glance.  She  looked  almost  ill,  yet  she  met 
her  niece's  gaze  calmly.  Nevertheless,  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives,  there  was  a  bond  of  sym- 
pathy between  them.  Mrs.  Charrington's  pride 
was  really  magnificent ;  she  sat  there  haggard  and 
worn,  uncomplaining  and  unexplanatory.  But 
this  morning,  in  spite  of  herself,  her  pride  was 
softened  by  a  strange  note  of  unwilling  gratitude. 
Nothing  could  alter  the  fact  that  her  niece  shared 
her  secret  and  stood  ready  to  help  her  fight  the 
world. 

Mrs.  Charrington  turned  to  Elise  with  an  ill- 
concealed  effort.  "How  much  money  will  you 
need,  dear?"  she  asked. 

Her  daughter  hesitated.  As  usual,  she  wanted 
all  she  could  get.  "How  much  can  you  spare 
me?"  she  parried. 

"Could  you  do  with  ten  dollars?" 

Elise's  face  clouded.     "Our  tickets,  alone,  will 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  31 

be  two  dollars — nearly,"  she  said.  "And  we  can't 
go  all  day  without  a  little  something  to  eat.  I 
couldn't  do  much  shopping  on  seven  dollars." 
There  was  a  stubborn  look  on  her  face. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  spare  you  any  more  today," 
said  her  mother.  "If  you  could  wait  till  next 
month,  I  shall  have  a  little  money  coming  in  then." 

"If  you'd  only  spoken  about  this  before  I  got 
all  ready  and  made  all  my  plans,  I  could  have  ar- 
ranged to  stay  at  home."  (Elise's  voice  was  dis- 
agreeable and  peevish.)  "Summer  will  be  over 
next  month.  I  suppose,  if  there's  no  money  to 
spend,  we  might  as  well  not  go.  There's  no  use 
wasting  the  time  for  nothing."  But  everyone  at 
the  table  knew  that  Elise  didn't  mean  that.  She 
had  no  intention  of  changing  her  plans.  She  was 
merely  testing  the  strength  of  her  leash. 

Mrs.  Charrington  sighed. 

"I  have  given  Theodora  the  money  for  her  own 
ticket,"  Mrs.  Winthrop  hastened  to  remark,  as 
her  contribution  of  oil  on  troubled  waters.  Just 
then,  Meta  entered  from  the  kitchen  and  took  her 
place  at  the  table. 

"Ned  stayed  in  town  last  night,  didn't  he?" 
she  asked.  Poor  Meta!  She  was  born  to  the  mis- 
fortune of  inappropriateness.  No  living  soul  could 
have  made  more  perfectly  innocent  and  natural 
speeches  with  direr  results.  After  all,  the  stars 
must  conspire  for,  or  against,  destinies.  How  else 
account  for  luck? 


32  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Not  for  a  moment  did  the  eyes  of  Theodora  meet 
those  of  her  aunt,  yet  there  ran  again  that  strange 
little  electric  thrill  between  the  two  women.  In- 
congruous as  they  might  be  as  a  pair  of  conspira- 
tors, that  was  certainly  what  the}''  were  becoming. 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Charrington,  "he  was  kept 
late  at  the  office,  dined  with  a  friend,  and  came 
home  on  the  last  train.  He  was  tired  out  and  I 
have  let  him  sleep."  Here  she  turned  to  Theo- 
dora. "I  thought,"  she  continued,  "that  after 
you  reach  town,  you  might  telephone  the  office  and 
explain  his  absence."  It  was  noticeable  that  she 
asked  this  service  of  her  niece  rather  than  of  her 
daughter.  A  telephone  was  a  luxury  that  the 
Charrington- Winthrop  household  did  not  afford. 

As  the  two  girls  walked  to  the  train  Theodora 
had  a  taste  of  what  the  day  held  in  store  for  her. 
Elise's  disappointment  on  the  subject  of  money 
could  not  go  without  some  outlet.  However, 
there  was  a  lull  when  the  station  was  reached,  be- 
cause there  waited  on  its  platform  an  audience  to 
be  impressed.  Elise  must  look  charming. 

In  the  days  of  long  ago,  Waverly  had  been  one  of 
the  most  aristocratic  summer  suburbs  of  the  near- 
by city.  In  those  times,  wealthy  people  did  not 
go  prowling  around  to  coast  and  mountains  and 
inland  watering-places.  Two  homes  they  pos- 
sessed— a  winter  one  in  the  city,  and  a  summer  one 
within  easy  reach  of  it,  so  that  the  men  of  the 
family  might  sleep  each  night  under  their  own  roof, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  33 

and  surrounded  by  their  own  household.  For 
some  two  weeks  in  August,  father,  mother,  and 
children  might  make  a  trip  together.  Except  for  a 
journey  to  Europe  every  four  or  five  years,  this  was 
the  height  of  their  adventure.  So  had  lived  the 
Duncans  and  the  Charringtons  and  the  Winthrops 
and  the  Farnsworths  (to  which  latter  family  be- 
longed Mrs.  Charrington  and  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Winthrop),  and  in  fact,  all  of  old  Waverly. 

With  declining  fortunes,  many  of  these  old  fam- 
ilies had  been  forced  to  accept  Waverly  as  an  all- 
year  residence — a  summer  home  and  a  winter 
asylum.  They  dropped  gradually  out  of  all  urban 
gaiety,  as  its  pace  quickened  and  its  cost  became 
prohibitive.  Though  still  eligible,  they  were 
bound  and  gagged  by  poverty.  In  consequence, 
they  were  soon  virtually  forgotten  except  by  those 
few  old  friends  who  were  still  faithful  to  Waverly 
summer  life.  Of  the  all-year  residents,  the  sons 
forsook  the  home  nest  at  the  first  opportunity  and 
the  daughters  faced  a  drear  future  of  inevitable 
spinsterhood,  except  by  the  grace  of  a  miracle. 

So  matters  had  stood  when,  some  two  or  three 
years  previously,  the  wonderful  natural  beauty  of 
the  place  had  made  appeal  to  a  newly  rich  multi- 
millionaire who  happened  to  be  driving  through  it. 
With  his  tobacco  fortune,  he  proceeded  to  buy 
eighty  acres  outside  the  town  and  to  put  up  a 
palace.  In  his  wake  came  other  fortunes — beer, 
chewing-gum,  patent  drugs,  more  tobacco.  Wav- 


34  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

erly  shivered  and  drew  its  respectable  mantles 
close  about  its  thin  shoulders.  Horrible  tales 
went  the  rounds  of  the  orgies  in  the  palaces — 
gambling,  drinking,  betting,  scandalous  dancing, 
feminine  smoking,  and  what  not.  How  these 
stories  were  disseminated  no  one  could  ever  have 
told.  Of  course,  no  lady  ever  listens  to  the  gossip 
of  servants  and  tradespeople;  yet  servants  and 
tradespeople  were  the  sole  connecting  links  between 
the  two  worlds.  Nevertheless,  the  reports  persisted 
and  were  never  doubted. 

The  thing  that  made  the  matter  worse  and  that, 
so  to  speak,  added  insult  to  injury,  was  that 
Waverlyites  stood  no  chance  of  selling  property 
to  the  newcomers.  These  latter,  according  to  the 
taste  of  a  modern  era,  preferred  to  live  outside  a 
village  rather  than  in  it. 

Thus  it  happened  that  there  stood,  every  sum- 
mer morning,  on  the  platform  of  the  Waverly 
station,  two  absolutely  distinct  groups  between 
whom  no  bow  of  greeting  was  ever  exchanged. 
Arriving  daintily  afoot  came  those  real  aristocrats 
who  found  themselves  obliged  to  spend  a  day  in 
town.  To  a  certain  spot  did  they  hie,  and  there 
remained  in  sweet  converse  with  lifelong  friends. 
Presently,  with  honking  of  horns  and  rattling  of 
chains  and  cracking  of  whips,  arrived  the  parvenus 
— in  motors,  or  carriages,  or  mail-phaetons,  accord- 
ing to  individual  taste.  And  a  group  apart  did 
they  form — a  group  unabashed,  luxuriously  ap- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  35 

parelled,  a  little  too  highly  ornamental,  a  trifle 
too  loud  of  speech  and  laugh,  but  by  all  worldly 
standards  a  group  that  had  much  the  best  of  the 
bargain,  and  one  to  be  envied.  Certain  it  is  that 
the  aristocrats  stole  more  sidelong  looks  at  the 
parvenus  than  the  parvenus  ever  bestowed  on  the 
aristocrats.  That  is,  generally  speaking.  When 
Elise  Charrington  was  among  the  waiters  it 
was  a  different  story.  She  always  played  up  to 
the  new-comers.  She  proceeded  to  do  so  this 
morning. 

In  the  first  place,  she  insisted  on  standing  a 
little  higher  up  the  platform.  "You  know  per- 
fectly well,  Theodora,"  she  said  fretfully,  "that  it 
is  impossible  to  get  a  good  seat  from  this  end." 

Arrived  at  her  haven,  she  placed  herself  in  pro- 
file to  a  nearby  knot  of  the  strangers  and  drew  up 
her  figure,  flexing  her  rounded  throat  and  throwing 
her  pretty  girlish  bust  into  highest  relief.  She 
soon  had  her  reward. 

"Gad,  what  a  little  beauty,"  said  a  perfectly 
audible  masculine  voice.  "Look,  Travis,  did  you 
ever  see  anything  sweeter?"  And  the  remark 
was  accompanied  by  two  very  bold  stares.  Theo- 
dora was  the  only  person  who  resented  them. 

It  mattered  not  to  Elise  that  the  speaker  was 
sixty  or  more,  nor  that  he  had  a  portly  figure,  a 
florid  face,  and  dissipated-looking  eyes  with  the 
glaze  of  arterial  hardening  on  their  glassy  surfaces. 
He  was  a  man,  and  there  never  seemed  to  be  any 


36  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

younger  ones  in  these  expensive  groups.  Had 
there  been,  life  in  Waverly  might  have  possessed 
some  zest. 

At  any  rate,  judged  by  the  standards  of  Elise 
Charrington,  the  day  began  well;  but  it  speedily 
degenerated  when  town  was  reached  and  the  in- 
adequacy of  the  purchasing  power  of  eight  dollars 
was  made  apparent.  Patiently  did  Theodora  trot 
around  from  shop  to  shop  in  her  cousin's  wake; 
infallibly  was  each  fresh  disappointment  visited  on 
her  innocent  head. 

"I  hate  to  be  poor,"  said  Elise  viciously.  "It's 
Hell.  What  good  are  looks,  if  you  never  have  a 
chance  to  do  anything  with  them?" 

The  cousins  lunched  cheaply  and  inadequately 
on  ice-cream  and  buns.  By  three  o'clock,  Elise's 
funds  were  exhausted  and  she  professed  herself 
ready  to  go  home. 

But  that  morning  Theodora  had  had  a  five-dollar 
note  pressed  into  her  hand  by  her  mother.  "I 
wish  I  could  give  you  more,  dear,"  Mrs.  Winthrop 
had  whispered.  "My  greatest  cross  is  that  you 
can  not  have  the  things  you  deserve.  But  this 
will  buy  you  a  pair  of  shoes  at  least,  and  those 
you  must  have." 

The  girl  had  protested.  She  had  always  a  singu- 
lar feeling  of  shame  in  accepting  money  from  her 
unselfish  mother — though  where  else  she  might 
have  hoped  to  get  it,  short  of  the  fruition  of  her 
cherished  plan,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  37 

However,  she  had  been  forced  to  take  the  money, 
and  she  now  wanted  to  spend  it. 

There  was  immediate  trouble.  Elise's  head 
ached,  and  her  feet  were  tired,  and  she  feared  she'd 
be  ill  if  she  didn't  get  home  in  time  to  rest  before 
dinner.  She  finally  consented  to  go  to  just  one 
more  shop,  and  there  Theodora  picked  up  the  first 
possible  pair  of  shoes — thankful  to  get  any. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  Theodora  sat  in  her 
little  room,  robed  in  a  dressing-gown,  absently 
brushing  out  her  magnificent  hair,  and  nerving 
herself  to  a  terrible  task. 

Whenever  she  was  out  "of  her  narrow  home  circle 
— even  for  a  day,  even  under  circumstances  as 
adverse  as  those  of  the  day  just  past — she  felt 
particularly  brave  and  capable.  Unfortunately, 
many  homes  stifle — good  ones,  loved  ones,  as  often 
as  not.  The  wider  world  had  invariably  a  bracing 
effect  on  Theodora.  Twenty-four  hours  under  the 
old  familiar  restraint  and  her  courage  was  gone, 
her  plans  seemed  impossible,  and  she  was  back 
at  the  depressing  starting-point.  She  had  deter- 
mined to  strike,  this  time,  while  her  iron  was  hot 
and  her  courage  was  up;  tomorrow  she  might  be 
again  in  shackles.  She  rose  and,  brush  in  hand, 
went  to  her  mother's  room  and  knocked. 

"Come  in,  dear,"  said  the  pretty  voice.  With 
the  feeling  of  a  murderess  about  to  stick  a  knife 
into  a  trusting  heart,  the  girl  entered. 


38  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Well,  dear,  did  you  have  a  pleasant  day?" 

"No,  Mother.  Quite  horrid,  thank  you.  But 
that  wasn't  your  fault.  It  was  Elise's,  as  usual. 
Mother,  why  do  I  have  to  chaperone  her?  She's 
twenty-three  and  I'm  twenty-one.  It's  ridicu- 
lous!" 

"I  shouldn't  call  it  chaperoning,  my  dear." 

"Well,  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  And  you 
know  what  Elise  is." 

Silence  fell  for  a  few  moments.  Then  all  at 
once,  her  pretty  prepared  preambles  forgotten, 
Theodora  took  her  plunge. 

' '  Mother, ' '  she  said, ' '  I  want  to  work.  Someone 
has  to  make  money  for  this  family,  and  I  seem  to  be 
the  one." 

Mrs.  Winthrop  was  frankly  dazed,  and  looked  it. 

"May  I,  Mother?" 

"May  you  what?" 

"Work." 

' '  Work  how  ?     What  do  you  mean,  Theodora  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know  just  what  I  do  mean,  but  I  want 
you  to  help  me  find  out.  Lots  of  girls  work  and 
support  themselves.  Why  can't  I?" 

' '  Theodora,  are  you  crazy  ?  What  do  you  think 
you  could  do?" 

' ' That's  the  trouble.  I  don't  know.  But  there 
must  be  something.  I'm  not  a  fool.  Perhaps  I 
could  be  a  nursery  governess." 

"You  mean  that  you  want  to  go  away  and  leave 
me?"  The  mother's  voice  was  plaintive  and 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  39 

accusatory.  A  son  is  supposed  to  have  his  own 
life,  whether  married  or  single;  a  daughter  is  not. 

"Leaving  you,"  answered  the  girl,  "is  the  only 
part  of  it  that  bothers  me.  But  I  couldn't  make 
any  money  here.  Would  you  come  away  with  me 
if  I  could  find  some  work?  I  could  advertise. 
Would  you  come,  Mother?" 

' '  Theodora !  How  could  I  ?  Do  you  know  what 
my  income  is?" 

"No,  Mother.     Of  course,  I  know  it's  small." 

"The  interest  on  ten  thousand  dollars — your 
father's  life-insurance.  That  is  every  cent  I  have 
in  the  world." 

"Then,  that's  all  the  more  reason  why  I  should 
go  to  work.  Half  of  this  house  is  yours,  isn't  it  ? " 

"Yes.  But  what  good  would  it  ever  do  me, 
except  to  live  in?  It  couldn't  be  turned  into 
a  source  of  revenue." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Was  it  left  to  you  and 
Aunt  Augusta  equally?" 

"Yes,  by  our  father.  But  you  must  remember 
that  your  Aunt  Augusta's  mother  was  his  first 
wife,  while  my  mother  was  only  his  second  wife." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?  The  house 
was  his,  not  his  wife's;  and  he  was  your  father  just 
as  much  as  Aunt  Augusta's." 

"True.  But  I  was  the  child  of  a  second  mar- 
riage. Your  aunt  was  ten  years  old  when  I  was 
born,  and  she  has  always  had  a -very  dominant 
nature " 


40  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"I  know  all  about  Aunt  Augusta's  nature,"  be- 
gan Theodora.  Then  she  remembered  the  past 
night  and  stopped,  to  her  mother's  relief. 

"Your  aunt's  mother  was  a  woman  of  some  little 
property,"  continued  Mrs.  Winthrop,  "which  she 
naturally  left  to  her  daughter.  My  mother  left 
nothing." 

"That  makes  no  difference.  Miss  Duncan  told 
me  that  she  had  often  heard  her  father  say  that 
my  grandmother  was  one  of  the  loveliest  women 
he  ever  knew." 

"But  a  second  wife,"  repeated  the  parent  with 
dogged  persistence.  The  lesson  had  evidently 
been  well  drilled  into  her  head.  "Then,  in  addi- 
tion to  what  your  aunt  inherited  from  her  mother, 
her  husband  left  her  a  little  something.  Not 
much,  it  is  true,  but  sufficient  to  give  her  an  income 
considerably  larger  than  mine." 

"What  was  her  husband  like?" 

Mrs.  Winthrop  hesitated.  "It  was  not  a  very 
happy  match, ' '  she  finally  conceded.  ' '  Mr.  Char- 
rington  was  handsome  and  brilliant,  but  he  was 
very  selfish — 

"Elise!"  ejaculated  Theodora. 

"Hush,"  begged  the  mother,  with  a  nervous 
glance  toward  the  door. 

The  girl's  next  question  nearly  took  her  parent's 
breath. 

"Was  my  uncle  a  drunkard?"  she  asked. 

"Theodora!"     But  the  shocked  emphasis  failed 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  41 

to  hide  the  fact  that  the  nail  had  been  hit  on  the 
head. 

"Oh  well,"  said  Theodora  indifferently,  "it 
doesn't  matter.  Let's  get  back  to  business." 

There  followed  a  long  discussion,  the  main  issue 
being  constantly  dodged  by  the  mother,  insistently 
dragged  again  to  the  fore  by  the  daughter.  ' '  Why 
can't  you  be  content  to  live  on  here,  just  as  you've 
always  done?"  demanded  the  perplexed  parent  at 
length .  ' '  Why  must  you  b  e  so  much  more  restless 
than  your  cousins?" 

"I  don't  know.  Because  I'm  made  differently, 
I  suppose.  Why  are  my  hair  and  eyes  a  different 
colour  from  theirs  ?  There  isn't  any  reason  for  such 
things.  Meta's  Meta,  and  Elise  is  Elise,  and  I'm 
Theodora.  That's  the  only  reason  that  I  know. 
.  .  .  But  I  haven't  been  'content'  for  a  long 
while,  Mother.  This  isn't  life " 

"And  do  you  imagine  that  working  for  your 
living  would  be  life,  as  you  call  it  ? " 

"It  would  be  better  than  this,  I'm  sure  of  that. 
Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  we  sit  here  with 
no  change,  no  chance,  no  experience;  doing  nothing 
interesting,  learning  nothing " 

"What  do  you  want  to  learn?" 

"What  the  real  world  is  like." 

"And  when  you  have  discovered,  you  may  well 
wish  yourself  back  in  your  sheltered  home." 

"Perhaps,  but  at  least  I  shall  have  tried  it. 
Here,  I  know  everything  and  everyone  by  heart; 


42  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

I  know  just  what  each  and  every  person  will  say 
and  do  and  think.  I  could  write  it  all  out  before- 
hand. My  wildest  excitement  is  a  day's  shopping 
in  town.  We  all  sit  here,  afraid  to  move  because 
it  would  cost  money,  afraid  to  work  because  our 
dead  ancestors  wouldn't  like  it.  If  they  were  so  fine 
—if  we're  so  fine — I  should  think  we  could  afford 
to  take  a  chance  at  independence.  What's  the  use 
of  good  blood,  if  it's  nothing  but  a  drag  on  one? " 

Mrs.  Winthrop  sighed  wearily  and  leaned  her 
head  on  her  hand.  Her  daughter  was  filled  with 
immediate  compunction. 

"I'm  tiring  you  to  death,"  she  cried.  "Go  to 
bed  and  get  a  good  rest.  But  may  I  speak  to  Aunt 
Augusta  about  this,  tomorrow?" 

' '  If  you  insist.  But  I  may  as  well  warn  you  that 
it  will  do  no  good." 

"I  think  it  will,"  answered  the  girl  with  an  odd 
smile.  "Anyhow,  I'll  try  it.  And  if  she  consents, 
will  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  must,  since  your  mind  seems  to  be 
made  up.  But  she  will  never  consent." 

Stooping,  the  girl  kissed  her  mother  lingeringly 
and  tenderly.  In  spite  of  occasional  surface 
prickles,  these  two  were  in  very  close  accord. 
"Poor  mother,"  said  Theodora,  "it's  awfully  hard 
on  you  to  have  a  queer  daughter  like  me." 

Just  as  she  reached  the  door,  her  mother  spoke. 

"Suppose  your  aunt  refuses  her  consent,  Theo- 
dora?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  43 

"Mother,  I  shall  go  just  the  same.  I  must. 
Aunt  Augusta  is  not  my  guardian.  She  has  no 
right  to  dictate  to  me.  I  must  live  my  own  life. 
Probably  I'm  a  freak,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Now, 
good-night." 

She  closed  the  door  gently  behind  her,  leaving 
her  poor  flustered  parent  to  imitate  the  time- 
honoured  hen  who  has  hatched  a  duckling  and  sees 
it  headed  straight  for  the  dreadful  pond.  Power- 
less to  understand,  to  dissuade,  to  aid,  she  could 
do  nothing  but  cluck  anxiously  and  vainly  on  the 
bank. 


CHAPTER   III 

AT  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Char- 
rington  entered  her  sister's  room  to  talk  over  poor 
dear  Theodora's  latest  vagary.  The  girl  had  been 
closeted  with  her  aunt  for  the  last  half -hour.  To 
Mrs.  Winthrop's  very  great  surprise,  her  sister's 
attitude  was  not  wholly  prohibitory.  Condemna- 
tory it  was,  naturally;  but  it  did  not  entirely  veto 
the  venture. 

"I'm  devoutly  thankful,"  said  Aunt  Augusta, 
"that  neither  of  my  daughters  is  afflicted  with  this 
terrible  modern  restlessness."  (And  to  this,  Mrs. 
Winthrop  might  well  have  answered  that  she  was 
' '  devoutly  thankful "  that  her  daughter  was  not  as 
homely  and  meek  as  Meta,  nor  as  selfish  and  pee- 
vish as  Elise.  But,  of  course,  she  didn't,  and  her 
sister  proceeded.)  "Poor  dear  Theodora  has  al- 
ways been  odd.  I  believe,  Mollie,  the  best  way  to 
convince  her  of  her  mistake  is  to  let  her  try  the 
thing  on  which  she  seems  so  set — provided,  of 
course,  that  a  sufficiently  protected  position  can 
be  found." 

"Ned  went  to  work  in  preference  to  sitting 
around  home,"  ventured  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

44 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  45 

"That  is  entirely  different.  A  man  may  do 
what  a  girl  may  not.  .  .  .  Who  is  that  coming? 
.  .  .  Oh,  Mollie,  there  is  Miss  Duncan's  motor. 
I'll  hurry  down.  Will  you  run  and  ask  Meta  to 
make  some  iced  drinks?1  Then  come  and  join  me 
in  the  library." 

It  wasn't  long  before  Theodora  and  Elise  were 
also  summoned.  Mrs.  Neilson,  who  accompanied 
the  Misses  Duncan,  had  conceived  a  disconcert- 
ingly novel  plan,  and  had  asked  particularly  for 
the  young  people,  whose  help  she  wished  to  enlist. 

"Whenever  I  find  myself  in  a  new  locality,"  she 
said,  "I  am  possessed  to  turn  it  into  a  workfield. 
These  wartime  days  are  so  urgent ;  there  is  so  much 
to  be  done,  and  every  little  helps.  I  am  surprised 
to  find  Waverly  so  detached." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Waverly  was  always  detached,  of  necessity, 
wrhere  matters  of  charity  were  concerned.  With 
the  exception  of  the  Misses  Duncan,  all  of  the  in- 
habitants of  Waverly  were  exclusively  occupied 
with  keeping  their  chins  above  water.  They 
couldn't  afford  such  luxuries  as  giving.  Wars 
might  come  and  wars  might  go,  but  Waverly  could 
do  naught  to  help. 

As  Mrs.  Neilson  spoke,  she  was  conscious  of  a 
lack  of  response.  All  her  hearers  were  immediate- 
ly embarrassed  by  the  thought  of  money.  Miss 
Duncan  and  her  sister,  though  happily  removed 
from  the  possibility  of  personal  inconvenience, 


46  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

were  nevertheless  nervous  for  their  friends.  The 
subject  of  giving  was  taboo  in  Waverly. 

"You know,"  continued  Mrs.  Neilson  cheerfully, 
"everyone  gives  now.  Everyone  has  to — even  if 
it  is  only  a  mite.  Mites  mount,  you  see." 

Theodora  dropped  her  candid  eyes.  Too  well 
did  she  know  that  everyone  did  not  give.  She 
couldn't  look  interested  and  seemed  to  assent,  with 
that  secret  consciousness  rankling  within  her. 
Elise,  on  the  other  hand,  continued  to  gaze  limpid- 
ly  at  the  speaker — hating  her,  the  while. 

"There  is  a  girl  in  the  city  who  is  a  great  friend 
of  mine,"  Mrs.  Neilson  went  on.  "She  has  just 
returned  from  France  where  she  has  been  doing 
wonderful  work.  She's  here  to  raise  money  for  a 
greatly  needed  hospital.  A  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars  will  support  a  cot  for  a  year.  Just 
think  of  the  brave  men  that  one  cot  may  hold  in  a 
year's  time!  ...  I  thought  if  we  could  get  this 
Miss  Bend  to  come  out  here  to  speak,  we  might 
raise  the  price  of  a  cot  for  her." 

Again  there  was  a  pause;  then: 

"We'd  never  do  it,"  cried  Theodora.  Her 
cheeks  were  scarlet  and  her  eyes  looked  worried. 

"My  dear''  deprecated  the  guest  in  a  tone  of 
disappointment. 

"I  mean,  Mrs.  Neilson,  because  we're  all  so 
poor." 

This  was  a  bomb.  Poverty  decently  disregarded 
was  one  thing;  poverty  blazoned,  quite  another. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  47 

Mrs.  Neilson,  however,  saved  the  situation  by  the 
naturalness  with  which  she  took  the  statement. 

"That  wouldn't  matter,  dear,"  she  said.  "No 
one  need  give  much.  But  if  everyone  came  and 
gave  what  they  could  spare,  quite  a  nice  little  sum 
might  be  raised.  Even  if  it  weren't  enough  for  a 
cot,  it  would  help.  The  point  is,  that  after  hearing 
Miss  Bend  speak  no  one  can  ever  again  sit  down 
with  folded  hands.  I'm  convinced  of  that.  She, 
herself,  has  no  money,  and  just  wait  till  you  hear 
what  she  has  done." 

"You  see,"  explained  Miss  Duncan,  "my  sister 
and  I  would  ask  some  of  our  friends  to  motor  over 
from  a  distance,  and  we  should  offer  our  house  for 
the  talk.  Mrs.  Neilson  will  be  with  us  and  she  will 
write  and  ask  several  of  her  friends.  Then,  if 
everyone  in  Waverly  comes,  we'll  have  quite  an 
audience." 

"And  I  don't  think  I'd  have  tickets"  (this,  from 
the  astute  Mrs.  Neilson).  "I  saw  it  very  nicely 
arranged  once  before.  Three  or  four  girls  handed 
around  boxes  decorated  with  big  bows  of  ribbon 
and  with  slits  cut  in  their  lids.  People  put  in  just 
what  they  could  afford — cheques,  pledges,  bills, 
small  change — anything  that  they  felt  they  could 
spare." 

This  was  a  relief. 

"You  girls  could  help  by  handing  the  boxes," 
continued  the  agitator.  Upon  that,  conversation 
began  to  flow  more  easily.  The  date  for  the  func- 


48  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

tion  was  settled — provided  Miss  Bend  could  be 
had  for  that  day.  "We  can  put  notices  in  the 
windows  of  the  public  garage  and  the  drug  store," 
suggested  Mrs.  Neilson.  "All  the  motorists  stop 
at  those  places,  if  at  all." 

"My  dear  Ellen,"  cried  Miss  Janet  Duncan  in 
shocked  tones,  "that  is  rather  too  public  for 
Waverly." 

"But,  Janet,  these  are  public  times.  The  war 
is  a  public  calamity.  There's  no  class  distinction 
about  suffering  and  need  and  danger.  The  great 
thing  is  to  get  as  big  an  audience  as  possible  for 
Miss  Bend.  You  don't  care  who  sits  in  your  chairs 
for  one  afternoon,  do  you?" 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  But  we've  always  been  so 
very  guarded  against  theatrical  publicity,  here  in 
Waverly.  We  like  to  keep  the  old  standards." 

"My  dear,  you're  about  to  see  very  great 
changes  in  standards.  Mark  my  words,  the  day  is 
not  far  distant  when  you'll  marvel  at  your  present 
ones,  as  at  something  entirely  antiquated." 

Here  Meta  entered  with  a  tray,  and  discussion 
stopped  for  a  moment.  Theodora  saw  her  oppor- 
tunity and  seized  it. 

"Mrs.  Neilson,"  she  said,  a  little  breathlessly, 
"I  have  been  begging  my  mother  and  my  aunt  to 
let  me  change  my  standards — and  theirs."  And 
she  told  her  tale. 

To  Meta  and  Elise  the  plan  sounded  incredible. 
Meta  was  frightened  and  Elise  was  furious.  No 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  49 

one  could  ever  tell  what  embryo  social  chance 
might  be  ruined  by  the  appearance  of  a  freak  in  the 
family.  Poverty  was  not  a  thing  of  which  one 
boasted.  Theodora  was  totally  lacking  in  decent 
pride. 

With  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Neilson,  the  older 
women  looked  pained;  but  that  astute  worldling 
immediately  applauded  Theodora's  courage  and 
good  sense. 

"In  your  place,"  she  cried,  "I  should  do  the 
very  same  thing.  You  are  a  sensible  girl.  These 
are  the  days  when  women  are  striking  out  for 
themselves  in  every  direction." 

Aunt  Augusta  proceeded  to  settle  her  debt  with 
her  niece,  according  to  her  lights. 

"I  think  we  will  permit  her  to  try  it,"  she  said, 
not  without  an  effort.  "The  world  is  not  what  it 
once  was,  and  the  young  seem  restless.  I  hope 
poor  dear  Theodora  will  not  find  her  experiment 
disappointing— 

"She  won't,"  predicted  Mrs.  Neilson,  with  a 
brilliant  smile  at  the  girl. 

Theodora  gave  her  hand  a  grateful  squeeze. 

On  the  appointed  afternoon,  the  drawing-rooms 
of  the  Misses  Duncan  were  being  rapidly  filled. 
The  occasion  had  been  raised  to  the  acme  of  im- 
portance by  the  announcement  that  the  Bishop  of 
the  Diocese  would  be  present  to  introduce  the 
speaker.  Waverly  was  much  more  interested  in 

4 


50  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

bishops  than  in  modern  and  mistaken  young  wom- 
en who  went  flying  around  Europe  unchaperoned. 
"Just  think,"  said  shocked  Waverly  in  the  safety 
of  discreet  intimate  conclaves,  "just  think  of  what 
might  have  happened  to  her — especially  in  Paris!" 

Up  the  beautifully  smooth  crushed-shell  drive 
that  wound  through  the  velvety  lawns  of  the 
ancient  Duncan  estate,  motors  and  hacks  rolled 
past  groups  of  pedestrians  in  party  attire — pedes- 
trians whose  uplifted  chins  and  aristocratic  in- 
souciance attested  to  the  fact  that  they  were  afoot 
from  preference  merely.  A  drop  of  bitterness  lay 
in  the  fact  that  the  lucky  travellers  in  the  motors 
would  probably  be  installed  in  all  the  best  front- 
row  seats  before  anyone  else  could  get  there;  but 
that  was  life! 

Inside  the  house  Theodora,  Meta,  Elise,  and 
three  or  four  contemporaries  were  busily  ushering 
the  guests  into  their  places — the  two  hostesses  and 
Mrs.  Neilson  forming  a  sort  of  informal  reception 
committee,  and  moving  among  the  assembled 
audience  with  little  speeches  of  welcome.  The 
two  stars — Miss  Bend  and  the  Bishop — were  not 
to  appear  upon  the  horizon  until  later. 

Every  chair  was  rilled  and  eyes  were  beginning 
to  consult  watches,  when  there  arose  a  tremend- 
ous clatter  outside.  Four  beautiful  motors  drew 
noisily  up  under  the  porte-cochere,  and  proceeded  to 
disgorge  a  group  of  twelve  or  fourteen  elderly, 
high-voiced,  overdressed  women,  who  soon  came 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  51 

clicking  over  the  tessellated  marble  entrance-hall 
on  French  heels  so  exaggerated  as  to  be  veritable 
stilts.  The  heavy  breath  of  artificial  perfumes 
preceded  the  party. 

Miss  Duncan  looked  at  Miss  Janet,  and  Miss 
Janet  looked  at  Miss  Duncan.  Everyone  else 
looked  at  them  and  at  each  other.  Previous  stolen 
glances  on  the  station  platform  made  these  new- 
comers recognizable  as  the  parvenues  from  the 
palaces. 

Miss  Duncan  had  always  prided  herself  on  her 
quick- wittedness;  here  was  an  excellent  chance  to 
exercise  it.  Motioning  her  butler,  she  ordered  him 
to  fetch  chairs  and  seat  the  late  arrivals.  At  the 
same  moment,  she  drew  her  sister  and  Mrs.  Neil- 
son  into  that  haven  from  which  Miss  Bend  and  the 
Bishop  were  presently  to  emerge.  Miss  Janet 
understood  the  clever  move;  Mrs.  Neilson  merely 
realized  that  it  was  time  to  begin.  Blissfully  un- 
conscious of  the  outrage  which  had  been  perpe- 
trated against  the  Duncan  hospitality,  she  was 
happily  thinking  that  these  strangers  suggested 
wealth  and  would  probably  give  generously. 

The  Bishop's  introduction  was  beautiful — at 
least,  so  Waverly  said  afterward.  He  bewailed  the 
war,  and  commended  Miss  Bend,  and  thanked  the 
Misses  Duncan,  and  all  in  very  eloquent  words. 
But  Theodora  was  used  to  bishops.  She  thirsted 
for  the  greater  novelty.  And  from  the  moment 


52  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

that  Miss  Bend  began  to  speak,  nothing  else  existed 
for  her.  She  throbbed  and  pulsed  and  ached. 
Never  had  she  imagined  such  situations,  such  hero- 
ism, such  sacrifice.  This  had  been  happening  in 
the  world  while  smug  little  Waverly  sat  safe  and 
idle,  its  sole  tribute  to  the  war's  existence  being 
a  perfunctory  shudder  now  and  again.  Why  was 
anyone  in  the  whole  world  sitting  still?  How 
dared  anyone  do  it?  Oh,  for  freedom,  for  oppor- 
tunity, for  money !  Money!  That  was  what  one 
needed!  That  was  the  important  thing,  whose 
lack  hampered  the  whole  of  life!  Hitherto,  Theo- 
dora had  wanted  money  for  herself  and  her  mother. 
Now,  she  saw  farther.  Money  was  indeed  as 
necessary  as  she  had  come  to  think  it,  but  for  far 
better  reasons.  ...  If  one  couldn't  give,  if 
one  couldn't  help,  then  one  might  as  well  be  dead. 
In  fact,  one  was  dead. 

As  in  a  dream,  Theodora  rose  with  the  other  girls 
to  the  task  of  passing  the  boxes.  She  noted  not  a 
single  face  as  she  moved  mechanically  from  chair 
to  chair.  As  soon  as  she  had  handed  in  her  own 
particular  box,  she  went  quietly  through  a  side 
door  onto  a  sheltered  verandah  that  she  knew;  it 
gave  a  beautiful  view  of  rolling  country,  tree- 
studded,  homestead-flecked,  horizon-encircled  with 
misty  violet  clouds.  Suppose,  thought  Theodora, 
suppose  that  were  Belgium  or  France  before  the 
debacle!  Suppose  there  lay  in  wait  for  it  that 
which  had  lain  in  wait  for  those  two  tortured 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  53 

lands!  Her  heart  swelled  to  bursting  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  So  long  she  stood,  so  tense, 
she  quite  missed  the  drama  being  enacted  in  the 
drawing-room. 

At  the  close  of  the  lecture  everyone  pressed  for- 
ward to  meet  the  speaker  who,  together  with  the 
Misses  Duncan,  the  Bishop,  and  Mrs.  Neilson, 
stood  on  a  slightly  raised  platform  at  one  end  of 
the  room.  As  the  audience  moved  it  chatted;  but 
it  chatted  in  two  distinct  groups.  Under  the  eyes 
of  the  Duncan  dames,  uncertain  as  to  the  position 
which  they  might  take  in  the  matter,  Waverly 
aristocracy  did  not  dare  so  much  as  to  smile  dis- 
tantly and  frostily  at  wealthy  Waverly  vulgarians. 
It  simply  avoided  the  issue,  filling  the  gap  with 
excited  (albeit  perfectly  well-bred)  greetings  to  old 
friends.  In  the  matter  of  self-consciousness  it  was 
no  whit  above  the  parvenues  it  refused  to  see. 

The  knot  of  newly-rich  were  quick  to  take  the 
hint.  A  little  loud,  posedly  haughty,  questioning 
each  other  absorbedly  as  to  the  hour  of  arriving 
chauffeurs,  they  flattered  themselves  that  they 
gave  a  perfect  imitation  of  indifferent  superiority. 
But  they  were  at  a  disadvantage.  Although  ex- 
pensively clad  in  the  midst  of  shabby  gentility, 
although  salved  by  the  happy  consciousness  of  just 
having  given  generously  instead  of  infinitesimally, 
they  were  nevertheless  at  a  distinct  disadvantage. 

Arrived  in  front  of  the  platform,  they  were  re- 
ceived with  frigid  politeness  by  the  ladies  of  the 


54  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

house.  Miss  Duncan  and  her  sister  judged  that 
they  had  been  tricked.  They  felt  that  opportu- 
nity had  been  seized  to  invade  their  sanctuary  and 
to  insert  the  thin  edge  of  an  invisible  wedge.  Had 
these  women  been  strangers  from  a  distance — 
strangers  with  whom  their  present  hostesses  would 
probably  never  again  have  come  face-to-face — the 
matter  would  have  been  different.  But  living  in 
Waverly,  using  the  same  station  and  the  same 
trains,  standing  in  wait  on  the  same  platform,  the 
two  elements  would  now  be  faced  with  a  hitherto 
unknown  problem.  The  shibboleth  of  Charity 
did  not  deceive  the  Misses  Duncan — too  well  did 
the}'  know  the  world !  In  the  place  of  these  stran- 
gers, never  would  they  have  committed  a  like 
solecism.  They  would  have  stopped  away  and 
ignored  the  affair,  finding  another  channel  for  their 
charity.  And  their  manner  today  said  as  much. 
Standing  erect,  with  hands  hanging  limply  by  sides, 
they  merely  bowed  their  heads  gravely  to  each  un- 
welcome guest,  letting  their  eyes  sink  deeply  the 
while  into  those  eyes  before  them.  Then  they 
pronounced  the  names  of  Miss  Bend  and  of  the 
Bishop — with  no  attempt  to  learn  those  of  the 
strangers  nor  to  make  the  introduction  mutual — 
and  their  part  of  the  ceremony  was  over. 

The  Bishop  and  Miss  Bend  were  happily  re- 
moved from  such  vexing  problems.  They  were 
equally  charming  to  everyone.  But  it  took  more 
than  that  to  cover  the  Duncan  snub,  and  that 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  55 

"more"  Mrs.  Neilson  immediately  proceeded  to 
supply.  She  greeted  each  newly-rich  effusively, 
thanked  them  all  for  coming,  asked  all  their  names, 
and  introduced  them  all  over  again  to  Miss  Bend. 
Her  kindness  had  its  reward. 

"If  you'd  give  us  your  address,  Miss  Bend," 
said  one  of  them  in  a  voice  that  was  conspicuously 
raised,  "we'd  be  pleased  to  send  you  some  pledges 
for  cots.  I  gave  all  the  money  I  had  with  me,  but 
I'm  willing  to  give  a  cot  beside,  and  I  guess  some 
of  these  ladies  with  me  feel  the  same  way.  We're 
not  in  the  habit  of  hanging  on  to  our  money  when 
there's  good  to  be  done  with  it." 

"How  perfectly  lovely,"  cried  Mrs.  Neilson  as 
four  other  women  testified  to  like  sentiments. 
' '  Miss  B  end,  do  you  hear  that  ? "  And  Miss  Bend, 
beaming  with  pleasure,  added  her  warm  thanks. 
Jumping  from  the  platform,  Mrs.  Neilson  accom- 
panied the  strangers  all  the  way  to  their  waiting 
motors. 

Later,  the  money  was  counted.  Nearly  seven 
hundred  dollars  had  been  taken.  It  didn't  seem 
possible,  but  it  was  quite  true.  Seven  hundred 
dollars  plus  five  cots,  was  the  marvellous  reward 
for  an  afternoon  of  work  and  worry. 

"I  shan't  sleep  tonight,"  cried  Miss  Bend.  "I 
shall  certainly  lie  awake  singing  the  Doxology. 
Rest  assured,  I  shall  never  forget  Waverly  and  its 
kindness." 

Theodora,  with  her  mother  and  aunt,  lingered 


56  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

after  the  other  guests  had  gone.  Mrs.  Neilson 
had  suggested  that  they  consult  Bishop  Wysong 
about  finding  a  position  for  the  girl,  and  the  idea 
proved  to  be  a  good  one.  He  was  very  encourag- 
ing, and  promised  both  to  make  inquiries  and  to 
keep  a  watch  over  the  advertisements  in  the 
Church  papers.  His  approval  and  sympathy  were 
balm  to  Aunt  Augusta's  spirit.  If  Bishop  Wysong 
(who  had  christened  Theodora  and  confirmed  her) 
saw  no  objection  to  her  making  her  living,  it 
couldn't  be  such  an  awful  thing  to  do,  after  all ! 

Theodora  was  very  silent  on  the  way  home,  and 
her  silence  continued  for  the  balance  of  the  day. 
Dinner  was  a  trial  to  her  soul.  Though  her  mother, 
her  aunt,  and  Meta,  all  paid  full  tribute  to  Miss 
Bend  and  her  wonderful  work,  it  was  a  subject 
that  made  them  uncomfortable  because  of  their 
inability  to  help.  They  therefore  took  refuge  from 
it  according  to  their  several  natures.  Mrs.  Char- 
rington  vented  her  feelings  by  flagellating  Germany 
and  her  atrocities;  Mrs.  Winthrop  thought  uni- 
versal prayer  might  work  a  miracle — she  had 
spoken  to  the  Bishop  on  the  subject ;  and  Meta  said 
nothing,  and  looked  as  though  she  wanted  to  cry. 

Such  obvious  futility  got  on  Theodora's  nerves; 
in  the  face  of  what  a  girl  like  Miss  Bend  had  done, 
it  seemed  so  paltry.  But  the  conversation  pre- 
sently took  a  turn  very  much  for  the  worse  and 
concerned  itself  with  the  "pushing"  strangers  and 
their  exhibition  of  bad  taste. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  57 

Elise  had  been  sitting  silent  and  discontented. 
The  sight  of  money  and  luxury  invariably  de- 
pressed her,  and  today  she  had  had  more  than  she 
could  bear.  Her  feelings  gathered  and  broke. 

"I  can't  see  anything  so  very  terrible  in  those 
women  coming  to  a  charity  lecture,"  she  said 
fretfully.  "Where  would  we  have  been  without 
them?  What  about  your  cots  and  your  money?" 

"No  one  denies  their  very  great  generosity, 
Elise,"  said  her  mother  stiffly.  "I  trust  we  all 
appreciate  that.  It  is  their  taste  that  we  deprecate. 
Forcing  an  entrance  where  they  could  never  other- 
wise hope  to  penetrate  - 

"I  don't  believe  they  cared  a  pin  about  that. 
What  are  two  prim  old  maids  to  them  -  ' 


"Well,  Mother,  don't  get  hurt.  I  only  mean 
that  those  women  have  everything  in  the  world 
that  they  want— 

"Except  good  taste  and  birth." 

"Just  look  at  their  clothes." 

'  '  I  saw  their  clothes,  Elise,  and  I  thought  them 
quite  terrible.  Would  you  want  to  see  your 
mother  dressed  so?" 

"Certainly.     Why  not?" 

"Will  you  excuse  me,  Aunt  Augusta?"  de- 
manded Theodora  suddenly.  "I'm  not  very  hun- 
gry, and  my  head  aches  a  little."  She  rose  to  leave 
the  room,  but  before  she  reached  the  door  her 
mental  vow  of  silence  was  broken.  Holding  her 


58  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

tongue  was  not  easy  for  Theodora — though  she 
honestly  thought  she  did  more  of  it  than  any  other 
living  person.  Perhaps  considering  her  age,  her 
temperament,  and  the  conditions  of  her  surround- 
ings, she  did  hold  herself  in  quite  a  bit.  But  this 
time,  she  fell. 

"I  think  such  agonizings  sound  simply  ridicu- 
lous in  the  face  of  what  Miss  Bend  told  us  today," 
she  said  excitedly.  "What  possible  difference 
could  it  make  for  those  women  to  sit  an  hour  in 
Miss  Duncan's  room?  They're  perfectly  decent, 
I  imagine.  Suppose  this  were  Belgium  or  France! 
Do  you  think  we'd  have  time  to  split  such  hairs?" 

"Fortunately  for  us,  it  is  neither  Belgium  nor 
France,"  replied  Aunt  Augusta  tranquilly.  "When 
this  war  is  over  and  forgotten,  Theodora,  matters 
of  good  taste  and  good  breeding  will  still  be  con- 
sidered important.  They  are  the  foundations  on 
which  society  is  built." 

Words  such  as ' '  Humanity' '  and ' '  The  Universal 
Brotherhood  of  Man"  would  have  helped  Theodora 
materially  at  this  juncture,  but  she  hadn't  yet 
learned  to  use  them.  ' '  Look  at  Mrs.  Neilson,"  she 
flung  at  her  aunt.  "She  is  certainly  as  good  as 
anyone  there  today,  and  yet  how  differently  she 
acted!  That  is,  judging  from  what  you  all  say. 
I  didn't  see  it,  of  course,  but  I  should  think  she 
must  have  made  everyone  else  look  foolish!" 

"Mrs.  Neilson,"  answered  Mrs.  Charrington, 
with  uplifted  brows,  "faced  no  permanent  problem. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  59 

She  could  well  afford  her  position.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know,  Mollie,  that  Miss  Bend  is  very  well-born. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  Lydia  Tremaine  whom  we 
used  to  know." 

"Lydia  Tremaine!  That  quiet  gentle  girl? 
And  she  actually  permitted  her  daughter  to  go 
off  to  Europe  unchaperoned,  at  such  times  as 
these!" 

Theodora,  escaping,  heard  no  more.  Such, 
however,  was  the  tradition  in  which  she  had  been 
bred,  the  mould  into  which  she  had  been  forced, 
ever  since  she  could  remember.  Nothing  but  very 
great  natural  sturdiness  could  have  succeeded  in 
resisting  it! 

It  wasn't  long  before  Mrs.  Winthrop  received  a 
letter  from  Bishop  Wysong,  who  had  not  forgot- 
ten his  promise.  The  Church  papers  had  solved 
Theodora's  riddle.  A  certain  Mrs.  Robert  Dela- 
field  Stuyvesant,  resident  in  New  York  and  at 
Grosvenor-on-Hudson,  wished  a  highly  recom- 
mended companion  possessed  of  every  virtue,  of 
character,  disposition,  birth,  breeding,  and  educa- 
tion. Letters  being  exchanged,  the  upshot  of  the 
matter  was  that  Theodora  was  engaged  for  the 
first  of  October,  then  to  make  her  appearance 
at  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  country  home.  There  fol- 
lowed local  discussion. 

The  Misses  Duncan  deprecated  the  distance 
from  Waverly,  and  trusted  that  Theodora  would 


60  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

not  acquire  "the  New  York  cachet,"  which  they 
greatly  disliked.  It  was  so  fast  and  modern. 
However,  the  child  would  soon  be  home  again, 
in  all  probability. 

Needless  to  say,  Waverly  society  followed  the 
lead  of  the  Misses  Duncan. 

Ned  insisted  that  Theodora  was  a  brick. 

Elise  thought  she  was  a  fool.  She  was  secretly 
envious  about  New  York,  but  devoutly  thankful 
that  soiled  linen  was  to  be  laundered  so  far  away 
from  home. 

Meta  was  too  dazed  to  think. 

Aunt  Augusta  said  nothing  whatever. 

The  real  wrench  was  the  parting  between  mother 
and  daughter.  But  Theodora  insisted  stoutly 
that  the  separation  would  be  of  short  duration,  and 
that  all  her  leisure  should  be  devoted  to  the  finding 
of  a  position  so  remunerative  as  to  make  it  pos- 
sible for  her  mother  to  join  her.  "Just  think  of  a 
little  home  together,  Mumsie,"  she  kept  repeating, 
"with  no  one  else  to  bother  us,  nor  to  rub  me  the 
wrong  way ! "  And  Mrs.  Winthrop  did  what  good 
mothers  have  done  from  time  immemorial  the 
world  over — put  her  own  feelings  aside  in  the  inter- 
ests of  her  child,  and  covered  an  aching  heart  with 
a  smile. 

There  was  a  flurry  of  dressmaking  and  trunk- 
packing,  and  at  last  the  great  day  arrived. 
Theodora  set  out  on  her  journey,  smothered  in 
directions  and  cautions  and  advice — also,  full 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  61 

of  so  many  conflicting  emotions  that  she  hardly 
knew  whether  she  was  happy  or  unhappy.  She 
couldn't  believe  yet  that  the  whole  thing  was  not 
a  dream. 


CHAPTER  IV 

As  the  little  station-motor  rolled  past  the  lodge 
and  between  the  entrance  gates  of  Fair  Acres,  a 
dazed  but  eager  Theodora  leaned  forward  to  catch 
the  first  glimpse  of  her  new  home. 

She  saw  a  lovely  old  park,  whose  velvety  lawns 
were  showing  the  first  touches  of  autumn  searness. 
Magnificent  forest  trees  flung  banners  of  deep  red 
and  dull  gold  to  catch  the  slanting  rays  of  the  late 
afternoon  sun.  Pricking  a  pattern  in  a  more  som- 
bre tone,  tall  firs  and  cedars  reared  dark  green 
heads  amid  those  of  their  gaudier  comrades. 
Then  a  sudden  turn  in  the  drive  gave  Theodora  her 
first  glimpse  of  the  house. 

It  was  exactly  what  she  would  have  wished — an 
immense  grey  stone  pile,  irregular  in  outline, 
flanked  by  innumerable  wide  verandahs.  Off  in 
the  distance  gleamed  hothouses,  their  multitudi- 
nous panes  transformed  into  flaming  mirrors  by  the 
shafts  of  sunlight.  All  in  all,  a  stately  and  beauti- 
ful home! 

The  car  drew  up  at  the  widest  of  the  verandahs, 
and  the  agile  groom  in  his  smart  fawn  livery  was 
instantly  off  his  perch.  The  front  door  was  opened 

62 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  63 

by  a  carven  image  of  a  butler,  and  Theodora  had 
just  time  to  catch  a  general  impression  of  wide 
halls,  heavy  tapestries,  soft  rugs,  crackling  fires, 
and  the  delicious  odor  of  hothouse  flowers,  when 
another  figure  appeared  upon  the  scene.  This  was 
an  ultra-correct  maid  in  black  uniform,  around 
whose  smartly  rigged  feet  and  ankles  gambolled 
two  of  the  darlingest,  snowiest,  curliest  little  dogs 
Theodora  had  ever  seen.  She  longed  to  kneel 
down  and  pet  them.  One  of  them  wore  a  huge 
pink  bow,  and  the  other  a  blue. 

The  maid  was  plainly  bored  by  them.  She 
shoved  them  aside  with  her  foot,  appearing  irri- 
tated by  the  necessity.  "Miss  Winthrop?"  she 
asked  (she  was  French,  and  Theodora's  name 
was  difficult  to  her  tongue) ;  "  I  am  to  show  you  to 
your  room,  please,"  she  continued. 

In  her  wake  followed  Theodora,  through  long 
corridors  and  up  a  stairway  that  seemed  far  re- 
moved from  the  principal  one.  So  many  turns 
did  they  make,  she  wondered  if  she  would  ever  be 
able  to  retrace  her  steps.  But  her  room,  once 
reached,  was  wholly  charming  to  her  unsophisti- 
cated eyes.  Of  fair  size,  hung  with  flowered  chintz, 
boasting  both  writing-table  and  fireplace  (Theo- 
dora's two  pet  luxuries),  possessed  of  bookshelves 
and  an  easy  chair,  it  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 

Said  the  maid:  "They'll  send  up  your  trunk, 
Miss  Winthrop,  as  soon  as  it  conies.  Would  you 
like  a  tea-tray,  or  will  you  wait  for  dinner?" 


64  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"What  time  is  dinner?" 

"Yours  will  be  at  seven  tonight.  Madame  is 
entertaining  at  dinner  at  eight,  and  she  told  me  to 
order  your  tray  an  hour  earlier." 

"Then  I'm  not  to  see  her  tonight?" 

"No,  Miss;  not  until  tomorrow.  She  is  resting 
now.  When  the  maid  brings  your  tray  you  can 
ask  her  for  anything  you  need.  There  is  a  bath- 
room directly  across  the  hall.  Will  that  be  all  ? " 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  replied  Theodora,  and  was 
immediately  left  to  her  own  devices. 

Somehow,  she  felt  lonely  and  neglected.  This 
arrival  was  such  a  tremendous  thing  to  her,  yet  it 
seemed  to  mean  nothing  whatever  to  anyone  else. 
She  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  she  would  see  her 
employer  soon,  and  had  been  full  of  half-apprehen- 
sive anticipations.  The  enforced  delay  made  her 
nervous  and  she  had  no  means  of-reassuring  herself. 

It  was  quite  a  comfort  when  a  nice-looking  Irish 
girl  brought  up  a  dinner-tray.  With  her,  Theo- 
dora had  a  little  talk,  and  thereby  learned  some- 
thing of  the  routine  of  the  establishment.  The 
maid  who  had  received  the  new  companion  was 
Louise,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  personal  maid.  Louise 
had  been  with  her  mistress  for  years — in  fact, 
nearly  all  the  servants  were  old  employees.  The 
companions  seemed  to  be  the  only  ones  who  failed 
to  stay.  "They  change  pretty  frequent,  Miss," 
the  parlour-maid  had  admitted,  and  had  then  held 
her  peace,  frightened  by  her  own  loquacity. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  65 

Following  the  example  of  her  mistress,  Theodora 
was  to  have  a  breakfast-tray  in  her  room  each 
morning.  She  was  then  to  await  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's 
orders.  Luncheon  and  dinner  she  would  probably 
eat  in  her  mistress'  company,  unless  there  were 
guests;  at  such  times,  solitary  trays  would  be  her 
lot.  It  was  a  side  of  the  question  that  had  not 
occurred  to  her.  Eating  alone  would  be  a  new 
experience.  Theodora  couldn't  help  smiling  when 
she  reflected  how  her  cousin  Elise  would  have 
chafed  under  the  implied  inferiority;  then  honesty 
forced  her  to  admit  that  she  didn't  greatly  care  for 
it  herself. 

The  parlour-maid  withdrew,  and  Theodora  ap- 
plied herself  to  her  dinner.  On  the  tray  was  a 
half -pint  bottle  of  claret,  which  she  didn't  touch; 
it  set  her  thinking  of  her  cousin,  Ned  Charrington. 
From  him,  her  thoughts  passed  to  Waverly  in  gen- 
eral, comparing  it  with  what  little  she  had  already 
seen  of  her  new  home.  Little  as  it  was,  it  marked 
a  difference.  Even  the  Misses  Duncan  had  never 
dreamed  of  engaging  a  companion.  Even  they 
would  not  be  apt  to  send  up  wine  on  a  dinner- tray. 
Even  to  an  employee,  who  was  likewise  a  gentle- 
woman, they  would  have  accorded  a  personal 
greeting  on  the  day  of  her  arrival.  Yes,  there  were 
certainly  differences. 

Theodora  had  plenty  of  material  to  keep  her 
thoughts  busy.  The  day  had  been  a  whirl  of  shift- 
ing, but  none  the  less  intense,  impressions.  For 
s 


66  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

tiie  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  travelled — and  on 
her  own  initiative,  at  that.  She  would  never  for- 
get that  marvellous  first  drive  up  Fifth  Avenue — 
a  drive  which  had  ended  all  too  soon.  To  think 
that  she  would  soon  be  making  familiar  ac- 
quaintance with  that  magic  street,  gazing  into  its 
windows  which  today  had  been  so  tantalizingly 
glimpsed,  mingling  with  its  fascinating  throngs! 
Then  her  mind  reverted  to  the  giant  terminals 
through  which  she  had  entered  and  left  the  city, 
in  each  of  which  she  had  seen  more  people  than  she 
would  see  in  Waverly  in  a  year;  and  to  the  beauti- 
ful ride  up  the  bank  of  the  Hudson,  the  purple 
Palisades,  the  picturesque  Tappan  Zee,  the  majes- 
tic waters  bearing  on  their  bosom  the  day-  and 
night-boats  of  which  Theodora  had  so  often  heard. 
Her  mother's  wedding-trip  had  included  West 
Point  and  the  Catskills,  and  the  two  great  names 
had  been  familiar  to  Theodora  ever  since  she  was 
a  baby. 

But  travelling  is  unfortunately  no  preventive  of 
home-sickness.  Never  before  had  Theodora  been 
so  far  away  from  her  mother.  Sorely  would  she 
miss  that  good-night  kiss  without  which  she  had 
rarely  slept — and  the  knowledge  that  her  mother 
would  be  missing  it  equally,  only  served  to  increase 
the  sadness.  Sitting  down  at  her  desk,  the  daugh- 
ter wrote  a  three-sheet  letter  with  which  to  follow 
up  the  postcard  that  had  already  carried  the  news 
of  her  safe  arrival  at  the  Grand  Central  station. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  67 

This  done,  she  prepared  for  bed.  And  she  floated 
off  to  sleep  to  the  far-away  sounds  of  happiness  and 
sociability — the  subdued  hum  of  voices,  the  trill 
of  laughter,  the  lilt  of  a  song.  What  was  it  all  like, 
downstairs  there,  wondered  Theodora.  Would  she, 
herself,  ever  be  permitted  to  get  to  the  real  core  of 
life,  or  was  she  marked  by  Fate  as  a  perpetual  on- 
looker? How  strange  and  unfair  it  seemed  that  a 
miserable  accident  such  as  lack  of  wealth  should 
forever  bar  one  from  joy  and  experience  and  use- 
fulness! How  wretched  that  a  thing  like  money 
should  be  the  controlling  power  of  the  world! 

With  which  thought,  Theodora  fell  asleep  and 
forgot  all  her  woes. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  before 
her  summons  came.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  it  appeared, 
rested  late  after  entertaining.  Therefore  it  was 
that  Theodora  had  the  long  half  of  a  morning  on 
her  hands  before  the  impatiently  awaited  meeting 
took  place.  And  when  the  moment  had  actually 
arrived,  she  faced  it  with  a  nervous  dread.  Louise, 
who  had  come  to  fetch  her,  knocked  lightly  on  a 
closed  door  and  disappeared. 

"Come,"  cried  a  voice,  and  Theodora  entered. 

"Ah,  Miss  Winthrop!  Pray  sit  down."  No 
hand  was  extended  in  greeting  and  Theodora,  who 
had  been  on  the  point  of  crossing  the  room  to  offer 
her  own,  sat  down  abruptly,  blushing  hotly  and 
feeling  snubbed.  Of  course,  she  was  now  a  paid 


68  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

companion;  but  wasn't  she  Theodora  Winthrop, 
just  as  much  as  ever?  Had  she  become  a  social 
outcast  by  the  mere  fact  of  working  for  her 
living? 

One  thing,  however,  she  was  forced  to  admit : 
her  employer  was  wonderful — to  the  eye,  at  least. 
Simply  wonderful!  She  was  the  very  acme  of  a 
brilliant  old  worldling,  perfect  to  every  slightest 
detail ! 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  hair  was  snow-white  and 
dressed  with  the  height  of  art.  It  lay  in  beautiful 
coils  and  masses  atop  of  the  most  proudly  held  head 
Theodora  had  ever  seen.  Beneath  this  frame  of 
hair,  big  dark  eyes  set  under  supercilious  lids  and 
coal  black  brows,  and  a  pair  of  faded  but  still 
delicately  tinted  cheeks,  made  an  arresting  en- 
semble from  which  a  marvellous  matinee  of  bro- 
cade and  old  lace  did  not  detract. 

"You  are  rested  from  your  journey,  I  hope?" 
said  the  older  woman  with  perfunctory  politeness. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  I  enjoyed  the  trip.  Travel- 
ling is  a  novelty  to  me." 

"Travelling?"  There  was  a  mocking  smile  on 
the  rather  scornful  old  lips. 

Theodora  felt  hot,  but  she  looked  levelly  back 
into  the  amused  eyes  regarding  her  with  such 
detachment. 

"From  my  standpoint,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,"  she 
answered  quietly,  "it  was  travelling.  You  see,  I 
am  unfortunately  quite  inexperienced." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  69 

It  was  a  pity  she  couldn't  know  how  cleverly  she 
had  done.  Like  all  autocrats,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
admired  spirit  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world 
— admired  it,  and  spent  her  life  trying  to  kill  it  in 
those  around  her.  Naturally,  she  didn't  expect  to 
permit  it  in  a  companion ;  the  possibility  had  never 
arisen  with  any  member  of  that  timid  army  that 
had  preceded  Theodora,  spending  their  every  mo- 
ment in  a  vain  effort  to  propitiate  an  exacting 
employer,  and  being  summarily  dismissed  one 
by  one.  A  hired  companion  had  no  business 
with  individuality.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
threw  an  odd  quick  look  at  the  girl  before  her. 

"You  have  never  worked  before  I  believe,  Miss 
Winthrop?" 

"Never." 

"What  decided  you  to  begin?" 

"Poverty." 

"You  have  lost  money  recently?" 

"No,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  I  never  had  any  to 
lose.  But  until  recently,  I  should  never  have  been 
able  to  persuade  my  family  to  let  me  work." 

"And  you  are  not  doing  it  for  amusement,  nor 
because  you  want  to  be  of  use  in  the  world?  " 

"  I'm  doing  it  for  money  entirely." 

The  keen  black  eyes  gazed  straight  into  the 
honest  hazel  ones.  Unknown  to  herself,  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant' s  lips  softened  a  trifle. 

"How  old  are  you,  Miss  Winthrop?" 

"Twenty-one." 


7o  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"I  take  it  you  are  not  greatly  given  to  prevari- 
cating?" 

"I  should  hope  not."  Theodora's  voice  was 
very  scornful. 

"You  will  have  ample  opportunity  to  test  your 
truthfulness.  I  have  never  yet  had  a  companion 
who  dared  to  tell  me  the  invariable  truth.  .  .  . 
You  consider,  I'm  sure,  that  a  compromise  with 
truth  is  never  excusable?  .  .  .  Well,  you  have 
much  to  learn." 

This  was  unexpected.  Theodora  was  left  to 
wonder  whether  her  truthfulness  were  being  com- 
mended or  deprecated.  Not  that  it  mattered, 
however. 

"Is  your  room  comfortable?"  continued  her 
employer. 

"Indeed,  yes.     It  is  simply  lovely,  thank  you." 

"Do  you  read  French  well?" 

"Aloud,  do  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  read  it  very  easily,  but  I  don't  know  what  you 
will  think  of  my  accent.  I've  never  been  abroad." 

"In  that  case,  it  is  probably  atrocious.  How- 
ever, one  can't  have  everything.  Are  you  fond 
of  dogs?" 

"Oh,  I  love  them.  I  saw  two  such  sweet  ones 
in  the  hall  last  night ' 

"Yes.  Those  are  my  children.  They  are  won- 
derfully clever.  I  like  them  to  be  exercised  intelli- 
gently, and  my  stupid  servants  merely  walk  around 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  71 

with  them.  You  can  take  them  out  in  the  morn- 
ings before  I  am  ready  for  you.  Around  the  park 
and  into  the  village.  Their  walks  must  not  be  too 
monotonous.  And  if  your  French  is  not  too  bad, 
I  should  like  you  to  speak  to  them  in  that  tongue. 
They  prefer  it,  though  of  course  they  understand 
English." 

"  What  are  their  names?  "  asked  Theodora. 

"Blanchette  and  Poilu.  Do  you  play  Bridge, 
MissWinthrop?" 

"Fairly  well." 

"I  may  need  you  occasionally  to  fill  in.  ... 
You  knit,  of  course?  I  shall  have  a  great  deal  of 
Red  Cross  work  for  you  to  do." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  never  learned  to  knit." 

"  Never  learned  to  knit !  How  shocking!  Where 
have  you  been  living?  Louise  shall  teach  you  at 
once.  She  knits  beautifully " 

At  this  moment,  there  was  a  knock  and  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant's  physician  was  announced.  A  cloud 
passed  over  the  proud  old  face.  "Stay  a  moment," 
she  said,  as  Theodora  rose.  "I  want  you  to  meet 
Dr.  Powers.  Then  you  may  wait  for  him  down  in 
the  library.  When  he  has  finished  his  visit  to  me, 
he  will  have  a  word  to  say  to  you." 

As  Theodora  sat  awaiting  Dr.  Powers,  she  looked 
around  on  the  most  beautiful  room  she  had  ever 
seen.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  morning-room  had  been 
charming — it  was  luxurious  and  dainty  and  sophis- 


72  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

ticated  and  intimate.  But  this  library  gave  as- 
surance of  the  mentality  and  solidity  of  a  long  race 
of  owners.  There  was  a  smell  of  Russia  leather; 
books  stamped  with  gilt  coats-of-arms  lay  on  the 
tables;  rare  editions  lined  the  walls  as  far  as  one 
could  reach;  beautiful  porcelains  and  etchings, 
together  with  a  collection  of  Japanese  armour,  sur- 
mounted the  cases;  on  one  table  lay  the  latest 
number  of  every  periodical  of  which  Theodora  had 
ever  heard,  as  well  as  innumerable  others  which 
were  strangers  to  her;  they  seemed  to  be  in  every 
tongue  but  German.  Selecting  one  of  them,  she 
was  just  settling  herself  to  enjoy  it  when  Dr. 
Powers  appeared. 

"Miss  Winthrop,"  he  began,  "there  is  a  subject 
on  which  I  must  warn  you.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  has 
been  my  friend  and  patient  for  many  years.  Some 
eight  years  ago  she  underwent  a  terrible  experience 
— her  only  son  died  under  particularly  painful  cir- 
cumstances, and  she  has  never  recovered  from  the 
shock.  In  addition,  she  now  has  angina  pectoris." 
He  stopped  and  regarded  Theodora.  "Have  you 
had  any  experience  with  that  disease?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Never.  I  know  almost  nothing  about  sick- 
ness." 

"Ah!  That  is  rather  a  pity,  under  the  circum- 
stances. It  is  my  firm  conviction  that  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant's  companion  should  be  a  trained  nurse. 
However,  she  won't  hear  of  it.  She  knows  the  na- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  73 

ture  of  her  trouble,  but  she  never  wants  it  men- 
tioned. Remember  that.  She  has  already  had 
several  serious  seizures,  and  she  should  never  be 
alone.  Now  I  must  instruct  you  as  to  remedies." 

He  proceeded  to  teach  Theodora  about  the  va- 
rious drugs  which  she  must  always  have  on  hand — 
those  for  quick  seizures,  those  for  more  ordinary 
use,  the  methods  of  their  employ,  and  the  signs 
by  which  she  must  recognize  symptoms.  It  all 
sounded  rather  frightening.  "Have  you  noticed 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  hands?"  was  Dr.  Powers' s  next 
question. 

"No,"  answered  the  girl.  "I've  seen  her  only 
once.  I  got  an  impression  of  lace  ruffles  and  flash- 
ing rings,  but  I  didn't  notice  her  hands.  Why  ?  " 

"They  used  to  be  very  beautiful — one  of  her 
chief  sources  of  pride.  Noted  sculptors  begged 
permission  to  model  them  in  marble,  and  so  on. 
Now  they  are  knotted  and  twisted  with  gout,  and 
she  avoids  showing  them.  I  have  actually  seen 
her  play  cards  in  gloves.  You  will  undoubtedly 
find  that  one  of  your  duties  is  pouring  tea  in  the 
afternoon — at  least,  that  has  been  the  case  with  all 
those  who  have  held  your  present  position.  This 
house  is  a  notable  gathering  place  in  the  after- 
noons— particularly  on  Sundays.  At  tea-time,  my 
patient  is  apt  to  get  excited  and  overtired.  I  want 
you  to  watch  her  closely  and  whenever  such  signs 
appear,  you  must  drop  three  drops — no  more,  no 
less — from  this  brown  bottle  into  her  second  cup 


74  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

of  tea,  which  she  is  sure  to  take.  Give  the  bottle 
to  the  butler,  and  tell  him  to  see  that  it  is  always 
on  the  tray." 

"It  seems  a  terrible  responsibility,"  said  Theo- 
dora. 

"You'll  be  equal  to  it  I'm  sure,"  answered  the 
doctor  kindly. 

Soon  after  his  departure  luncheon  was  an- 
nounced, and  Theodora  made  her  first  acquaint- 
ance with  the  dining-room.  Although  no  gour- 
mand, she  couldn't  fail  to  appreciate  the  delicious 
food.  Wine  appeared  again,  and  noticing  that 
the  girl  never  lifted  her  glass,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
turned  on  her  sharply. 

"You  don't  take  wine?"  she  demanded. 

"Not  often." 

"May  I  ask  why?  I  trust  it  is  no  question  of 
principle.  If  there's  anything  I  detest,  it  is 
Puritanism." 

Theodora  thought  of  Ned  and  of  that  awful 
night  at  home.  But  had  she,  indeed,  any  general 
principles  against  wine,  or  was  Ned  merely  a 
weakling,  falling  where  another  might  safely  stand? 
She  hardly  knew  her  own  views  of  the  matter. 

"My  mother  considers  me  too  young  to  take 
wine  habitually,"  she  answered  truthfully. 

"Hm!  Provincial  standards.  Still,  that  seems 
a  sufficiently  legitimate  reason.  I  don't  mind 
that." 

"Don't  you  indeed?"  thought  Theodora  the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  75 

independent.  But  as  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  wasn't 
Aunt  Augusta,  she  could  say  nothing. 

After  luncheon,  there  were  some  notes  to  be 
written  before  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  rested.  These, 
Theodora  found  simply  astounding.  Two  thirds  of 
them  were  answers  to  appeals  for  money  or  help. 
Very  few  were  refused.  The  girl  filled  in  cheques 
amounting  to  hundreds  of  dollars,  and  handed  them 
over  for  signature.  She  wondered  if  this  were  an 
ordinary  occurrence. 

There  was  one  letter  concerning  an  unpopular 
matron  at  a  certain  hospital ;  a  movement  was  afoot 
to  replace  her.  At  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  dictation, 
Theodora  wrote  the  answer  to  this  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  read  it  aloud.  She  came  to  a  certain 
sentence:  "Although  I  am  aware  that  Miss  Ross 
is  no  saint,  she  still  had  many  traits  that  make  her 
valuable  to  us;  I  think  you  would  better  think 
twice  before  sending  her  off." 

"What  is  that?"  demanded  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
suddenly  and  sharply.  "Read  that  last  part 
again." 

Theodora  complied. 

"Did  you  say,  'I  think  you  would  better  think 
twice?'" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant." 

"Why  did  you  write  such  a  sentence  as  that?" 

"Because  it  was  correct." 

"Correct?  It  most  certainly  is  not  correct. 
Change  it  at  once." 


76  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Now  as  it  happened,  Theodora  had  had  an  Eng- 
lish teacher  to  whom  that  particular  phrase  had 
been  a  fetich — and  the  girl  had  ever  since  prided 
herself  on  her  correct  use  of  it.  She  longed  to 
point  out  to  her  employer  that  "would  think" 
could  be  parsed  while  "had  think"  couldn't — that 
the  incorrect  use  had  arisen  from  the  contraction 
"  I  think  you'd  better  think,"  and  had  been  wrongly 
translated  back  as  "had"  instead  of  "would"; 
but  of  course,  her  lips  were  sealed. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  write  'had'  better  think 
twice?'"  she  asked  constrainedly. 

"I  certainly  do.  And  you  may  copy  the  entire 
letter.  .  .  I  think  you'll  find  your  duties  here 
sufficiently  varied,  Miss  Winthrop,  without  at- 
tempting to  add  English  lessons  to  them.  Pro- 
vincial standards  may  do  very  well  in  small  places, 
but  they  do  not  hold  in  the  real  world.  Ring  for 
Louise  please;  I  must  rest." 

At  afternoon  tea,  Theodora  forgot  her  irritation. 
To  do  the  girl  justice,  she  didn't  harbour  grudges. 
She  was  never  resentful.  The  sun  always  came 
promptly  out  from  behind  her  clouds — only  it 
helped  such  a  lot  if  she  could  first  give  vent  to  her 
feelings.  As  she  herself  put  it,  she  hated  to  be 
"bottled  up."  However,  it  was  a  lesson  that  she 
had  now  certainly  to  learn. 

Few  persons  could  have  failed  to  yield  to  the 
spell  cast  by  that  charming  tea-hour.  Fourteen 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  77 

or  fifteen  guests  dropped  in,  all  attractive,  all  in- 
teresting, all  primed  with  the  latest  tidbits  of  news 
and  gossip.  In  nearly  every  instance  Theodora 
received  first  a  smiling  bow,  and  then  a  much  more 
careful  scrutiny.  Here  was  new  material  in  the 
way  of  companions!  Before  the  afternoon  ended 
almost  every  guest  had  made  occasion  for  a  little 
chat  with  her. 

But  even  failing  that,  she  would  have  been 
content  to  sit  and  listen  greedily  to  the  bright 
talk  purling  so  smoothly  around  her.  Here  were 
women !  Here  were  men !  Here  was  life,  indeed ! 

"Bashmirkeff  sat  next  me  at  dinner  last  night," 
said  one  exceedingly  pretty  woman.  "He  tells  me 
that  the  present  Russian  situation  can  not  possibly 
last.  The  people  are  wild  with  distrust  and  fright. 
They  don't  know  where  they  stand,  nor  whom  to 
trust.  Treachery  is  in  the  very  air,  and  no  one  is 
sure  whence  it  comes.  They  are  all  such  tremend- 
ous idealists  at  heart 

"And  the  Soukhomlinoff  incident  was  a  mere 
sop  to  Cerberus,"  added  a  man. 

"Exactly  But  my  dear,  what  a  subject  for  a 
drama!  That  woman,  fascinating  as  a  serpent, 
without  a  ray  of  actual  beauty ;  that  enamoured  old 
man  weaving  a  rope  around  his  own  neck  in  order 
to  pour  jewels  into  her  lap :  her  cold-blooded  deser- 
tion of  him  the  moment  that  danger  threatened! 
Couldn't  Bataille  make  a  masterpiece  of  such 
material?" 


78  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Theodora  sat  entranced.  At  home,  if  two  or 
three  were  gathered  together  they  were  probably 
discussing  a  new  stitch  in  embroidery,  or  whether 
that  miserable  Mrs.  O'Hara  should  be  encouraged 
in  her  wild  career  of  child-bearing  by  having  old 
underclothes  bestowed  upon  her,  or  how  the  chew- 
ing-gum millionaries  had  attempted  to  bow  to 
Miss  Duncan  on  the  platform.  Ah,  she  had  been 
lucky — more  than  lucky — to  get  a  chance  to  widen 
her  horizon ! 

"Miss  Winthrop,"  said  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  sud- 
denly, "  my  last  cup  of  tea  is  simply  wretched.  It 
is  perfectly  cold." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  cried  the  girl  contritely,  the 
quick  colour  rising  to  her  cheeks.  This  was  a  scold- 
ing which  was  probably  well  deserved,  and  it  was 
only  injustice  that  Theodora  resented.  She  had 
been  so  absorbed  that  she  had  forgotten  her  duties. 

Her  penitence  was  so  genuine  and  so  graceful 
that  it  made  everyone  her  immediate  would-be 
champion.  Even  her  imperious  employer  was 
mollified. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "Probably  the  spirit- 
lamp  wasn't  working  properly.  Towner  has  been 
shockingly  careless  of  late." 

"No,"  answered  Theodora,  "it  is  quite  all  right. 
I'm  afraid  thefault  is  mine,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant." 

' '  Well,  let  it  go, "  answered  the  older  woman  with 
unexpected  mildness.  .  .  .  "What  were  you 
saying,  Edith?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  79 

That  night  before  she  slept,  Theodora  wrote  to 
her  mother. 


DEAREST  MOTHER, 

Everything  is  lovely.  I  wish  you  could  see  my  room. 
A  perfect  dear,  with  a  fireplace  all  my  own!  Tell 
Elise  I'm  to  have  a  breakfast-tray  every  morning. 
The  house  looks  like  a  palace  to  my  untutored 
eyes,  and  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  is  simply  wonderful — very 
beautiful  and  aristocratic.  Like  Aunt  Augusta,  she 
is  never  wrong.  I  think  they  two  would  hit  it  off 
marvellously,  except  that  Mrs.  S.  would  never  meet 
Aunt  A.  as  an  equal.  Did  you  know,  lovely  Parent, 
that  we  in  Waverly  are  simply  provincial  nobodies? 
How  do  you  suppose  that  fact  escaped  our  notice  all 
these  years — for  it  seems  to  be  established  without 
question,  and  I  am  evidently  to  be  kept  constantly  in 
mind  of  it.  As  soon  as  possible,  I  wish  you'd  send  over 
the  oldest  of  the  portraits,  and  the  big  framed  coat-of- 
arms  with  the  sixteen  quarterings,  and  the  snuff-box 
presented  to  one  of  my  ancestors  by  Queen  Anne,  and 
the  Colonial  diary  of  that  other  ancestor  (I  know  I  had 
more  than  two,  so  don't  feel  it  necessary  to  call  my 
attention  to  the  slip),  and  some  of  the  Crown  Derby 
and  mahogany,  and  the  ball-frock  in  which  my  many- 
times-great-grandmother  flirted  so  outrageously  with 
Lord  Howe,  and  any  other  little  trifles  that  may  be 
lying  around  loose. 

However,  when  it  comes  to  present  visiting-lists, 
I'll  concede  that  we  have  to  take  back  seats.  I  poured 
tea  this  afternoon,  and  the  talk  was  so  wonderful  that 
I  forgot  my  duties  and  let  everything  get  stone  cold. 


8o  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

I  heard  important  names  being  bandied  about  with 
a  familiarity  that  made  my  head  swim.  Mrs.  Stuy- 
vesant  and  her  friends  evidently  know  everyone,  except 
such  poor  worms  as  are  not  eligible  to  their  circle.  To 
be  honest,  life  here  seems  to  me  so  big  it's  amazing. 
The  people  are  interested  in  everything  important  and 
useful,  and  they  appear  to  give  away  fortunes.  That, 
I  confess,  makes  me  green  with  envy.  However,  it's 
just  the  accident  of  money.  If  we  had  it,  we'd  do  the 
same. 

The  burning  question  at  present  is,  whether  my 
French  is  good  enough  to  be  inoffensive  to  the  ears  of 
two  highly  intelligent  poodles  who  prefer  to  be  ad- 
dressed in  that  tongue — my  English  being  already 
hopelessly  damned.  I'm  to  be  tried  out  tomorrow, 
and  I  can't  tell  you  how  my  heart  palpitates.  If  I 
pass  the  test,  I'm  to  exercise  the  pair  of  canines  daily, 
in  French. 

I  gather  that  Mrs.  S.  is  contemplating  giving  a  big 
house-party  in  the  near  future.  Of  course,  it  won't 
touch  me,  but  it  will  be  exciting  to  live  under  the  same 
roof  with  it."  That  is  nearer  than  I've  ever  yet  come  to 
excitement. 

Good-night  dearest  Mother.  Crowds  of  love  and 
bushels  of  kisses.  Miss  me,  but  be  happy.  And 
above  all,  keep  well. 

Your  own, 

THEODORA. 


CHAPTER  V 

THEODORA  had  just  finished  writing  the  invita- 
tions to  the  house-party.  There  they  lay,  a  goodly 
pile — blazoned,  sealed,  stamped.  The  girl  won- 
dered about  their  recipients — how  they  looked, 
whether  they  were  young,  old,  or  middle-aged, 
what  their  various  characters  and  dispositions 
might  be.  It  went  without  saying  that  they  were 
all  rich  and  fashionable;  almost  certainly  they 
were  interesting — to  the  extent,  at  least,  of  having 
seen  the  latest  play,  heard  the  latest  music,  read 
the  latest  book,  met  the  latest  celebrity,  and 
inserted  a  finger  in  every  pie  that  was  at  all  worth 
while.  Presumably  they  were  gay,  for  their 
prospective  hostess  detested  being  bored;  medi- 
ocrity and  stupidity  were  her  two  betes  noires. 
"Give  me  amusing  wickedness,"  she  always  in- 
sisted, "rather  than  stupid  virtue!"  Repeatedly 
already  had  Theodora,  assisting  at  afternoon  tea, 
heard  her  employer  reject  some  name  proposed  » 
as  an  addition — possibly  to  a  Hospital  Board, 
possibly  to  a  Red  Cross  Committee — with  the 
words:  "Oh,  I  think  we  won't  bother  with  her. 
I've  no  doubt  she's  perfectly  nice,  since  you  all 

6  81 


82  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

say  so;  but  suppose  we  let  someone  else  capture 
her?  Probably  she  wouldn't  enjoy  us  any  better 
than  we'd  enjoy  her!"  But  this  last  palpable 
piece  of  mock  humility  deceived  no  one.  It  was 
merely  the  Stuyvesant  method  of  snubbing,  in 
the  lordly  manner. 

Writing  letters  for  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  like 
hearing  one  end  of  a  telephone  conversation.  The 
answers  to  the  letters  were  usually  read  only  by 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  herself.  Theodora  often  wished 
she  could  know  about  the  outcome  of  certain 
issues,  but  she  had  little  doubt  of  her  employer's 
ability  to  carry  things  with  a  high  hand. 

For  her  own  part,  she  was  conscious  of  an  ever- 
increasing  admiration  for  the  old  autocrat  with 
whom  she  lived — even  while  admitting  her  num- 
erous obvious  imperfections.  To  many  an  abor- 
tive impasse  had  the  two  dominant  individualities 
come;  but  by  the  very  nature  of  things,  Theodora 
had  always  to  yield  almost  before  she  resisted. 
At  first  difficult,  this  was  becoming  daily  less  and 
less  of  a  cross.  Where  it  had  formerly  been  bit- 
terness, it  was  now  merely  a  nettle-sting.  Often 
and  often  did  the  girl  sit  silent,  knowing  herself 
to  be  right  (as  in  that  grammatical  discussion  on 
her  very  first  day).  Frequently  she  received  the 
odd  impression  that  these  issues  were  being  forced 
by  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  and  that  she — Theodora — 
was  under  keen  surveillance  whenever  they  arose. 
It  was  a  pity  she  couldn't  sometimes  have  had 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  83 

eyes  in  the  back  of  her  head — she  might  have 
surprised  an  occasional  fierce  gleam  of  satisfac- 
tion in  those  cynical  old  dark  ones  that  could  so 
flash  and  flame.  Could  Theodora  sometimes  have 
read  her  employer's  mind,  she  might  have  been 
quite  a  bit  astonished. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  girl's  admiration  in- 
creased daily.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  might  be  cynical, 
she  might  be  overbearing,  she  might  be  madden- 
ingly sure  that  Society  was  bounded  by  her  own 
particular  set  and  that  all  other  aspirants  should 
be  put  in  their  places;  but  she  was  brilliant,  she 
was  charitable  (with  money),  she  was  kind  (in 
her  own  particular  way),  and  she  never  stooped 
to  falsehood,  nor  to  self-consciousness,  nor  to  a 
betise  of  any  sort.  She  was  simply  Herself,  by 
divine  right.  That  being  conceded,  her  heart 
was  often  surprisingly  in  evidence. 

As  to  the  impression  produced  upon  her  by  this 
new  companion,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  herself  was  no 
little  astounded.  The  girl  must  be  broken,  of 
course.  Imagine  a  chit  like  that,  permitting  her- 
self such  a  degree  of  personality!  But  what  a 
relief — oh,  what  an  ineffable  relief — to  be  free 
from  the  irritating  exhibition  of  stupidity,  and 
petty  falsehoods,  and  cringing,  afforded  by  all 
those  other  companions.  What  a  grim  sort  of 
satisfaction  never  to  be  able  to  pick  a  real  flaw 
in  the  innate  breeding  of  a  paid  attendant,  to  be 
sure  of  looking  constantly  on  daintiness  and  whole- 


84  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

someness — and  even  beauty,  to  have  one's  ears 
caressed  by  a  really  lovely  voice,  to  watch  the 
quick  flash  of  intelligent  response  in  honest  young 
eyes,  the  avid  grasp  of  ideas  by  a  fresh  receptive 
young  mind! 

It  would  have  surprised  these  two  no  little  to 
be  told  that  they  were  almost  mental  counterparts. 
Each  would  immediately  have  denied  the  charge, 
with  a  quick,  unbidden  (though  perfectly  modest), 
memory  of  the  faults  and  shortcomings  of  the 
other.  Yet  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  this  precise 
unsuspected  similarity  that  constantly  drew  them, 
and  intrigued  them,  and  even  almost  irritated 
them.  The  girl  thought:  "If  I  should  dare  to  be 
as  absolute  as  that,  they'd  call  me  hard."  The 
woman  thought:  "Whenever  she  wins  out,  it 
will  be  by  the  unaided  force  of  her  own  person- 
ality." Neither  of  them  had  ever  before  met  her 
match.  Both  were  utterly  fearless,  both  were 
honest,  both  were  hotly  intolerant  of  deceit  and 
pose  and  mediocrity  in  every  form.  Granted  the 
same  conditions  of  surroundings  and  of  years, 
they  would  have  been  absurdly  identical.  But 
how  differently  life  had  seen  fit  to  deal  with  them ! 

"You've  finished  the  letters,  Miss  Winthrop?" 
asked  Theodora's  employer. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant." 

"Then  I  think  we'll  have  time  to  go  on  with  the 
French  book  before  luncheon." 

The  girl's  accent  having  passed  muster,   the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  85 

result  had  been  her  introduction  to  a  realm  of 
literature  whose  art  and  subtlety  held  her  spell- 
bound, even  while  the  frankness  of  its  calm  realism 
shocked  her.  In  the  protection  of  her  own  fire- 
side she  would  never  even  have  heard  of  such 
books.  But  autres  foyers,  autres  mceurs.  Birds 
that  forsake  the  home  nest  must  learn  to  use 
their  own  wings. 

This  morning's  reading  was  a  book  that  gripped 
the  heart,  intrigued  the  mind,  but  brought  a 
Puritan  modesty  up  gasping.  Theodora,  reading 
a  certain  sentence,  was  told  to  repeat  it.  "Read 
that  again,"  said  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 

The  girl  obeyed.  "  'The  terrible  experimental 
inquisitiveness  of  youth  is  responsible  for  most  of 
the  tragedies  of  life. ' ' 

"Do  you  agree  with  that,  Miss  Winthrop?" 

Theodora  considered.  "No,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant," 
she  presently  answered. 

"  Why  not?     It  is  quite  true." 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  "take  this  war!  It  cer- 
tainly is  one  of  the  tragedies  of  life,  yet  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  inquisitiveness  of  youth." 

The  older  woman  threw  her  a  quick  glance  of 
appreciation.  She  liked  people  who  thought  for 
themselves.  "That  is  true,"  she  admitted.  "But 
this  book  was  written  before  the  war.  I'm  re- 
reading it,  you  see.  I  imagine  it  means  individual 
tragedies,  perennial  tragedies,  general  recurrent 
tragedies.  Do  you  get  my  idea?" 


86  Poor  Dear  Theodora  ! 

"Yes,"  answered  Theodora,  and  again  she  con- 
sidered. She  knew  few  young  people,  and  none 
like  herself.  Suddenly  the  thought  occurred  to 
her,  suppose  that  should  be  the  thing  that  differ- 
entiated her  from  most  of  her  contemporaries! 
Suppose  she  had  little  or  none  of  this  natural  ex- 
perimental inquisitiveness,  and  that  .by  its  very 
lack  she  was  rendered  sub-normal!  She  knew 
that  her  cousin  Elise  got  many  secret  books  from 
a  library  in  town,  that  she  kept  them  hidden 
and  read  them  on  the  sly.  She  knew  that  she, 
Theodora,  had  always  felt  a  strong  repugnance 
for  a  certain  class  of  topics  and  thoughts.  This 
repugnance,  though  innate,  had  been  greatly 
fostered  by  an  old-fashioned  training,  coupled 
with  a  natural  obedience.  Perhaps  Elise  had  a 
surplus  of  this  trait  of  inquisitiveness,  while 
Theodora  had  none!  That  might  be  the  explana- 
tion of  many  things. 

"I'll  think  that  over,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,"  she 
finally  said.  "It's  rather  interesting."  And  she 
went  on  reading. 

Assuredly,  no  provincialism  could  live  long  in 
such  surroundings.  And  since  life's  lessons  must 
eventually  be  learned,  and  since  ignorance  is 
never  innocence,  it  was  high  time  that  Theodora's 
education  should  begin.  Nevertheless,  she  would 
be  forever  guarded  by  her  natural  fastidiousness 
and  by  her  innocent  childhood.  From  off  such 
a  combination,  indecency  would  always  roll  as 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  87 

water  from  a  duck's  back.  Knowledge  would  be 
but  a  further  protection,  never  a  temptation. 

Before  luncheon,  Theodora  went  to  her  room 
where  she  found  two  letters  awaiting  her.  The 
one  in  her  mother's  writing  she  naturally  opened 
first.  Her  eyes  flew  over  its  pages.  Suddenly 
she  gave  a  sharp  exclamation. 

What  was  this?  Elise  engaged  to  Dr.  Sewall? 
It  couldn't  be!  Mother  must  mean  Meta.  But 
no — the  name  appeared  again  and  again.  Elise 
was  to  be  married  very  soon,  with  the  quietest 
of  ceremonies.  She  seemed  to  be  happy.  She 
would  have  a  pretty  home,  two  servants,  and  a 
car — the  doctor's  professional  one. 

In  a  fit  of  disgust,  Theodora  threw  the  letter  on 
the  floor.  "The  cheat,"  she  exclaimed.  "The 
wretched  little  cheat!  She's  no  more  in  love  with 
that  man  than  I  am.  To  rob  her  own  sister — and 
such  a  sister  as  Meta!  It's  a  disgusting  shame! 
I  hope  she'll  never  know  what  happiness  means — 
the  miserable  little  thief!" 

The  other  letter  was  one  of  Ned's  rare  missives. 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  and  Theodora  were 
the  greatest  of  chums  and  almost  twins  by  the 
calendar,  she  rarely  heard  from  him.  He  now 

wrote : 

> 

DEAR  BROWNIE, 

I've  been  meaning  to  write  and  ask  how  you  are 
getting  along.  It's  a  confounded  shame  that  you  had 


88  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

to  get  out  and  hustle  for  the  needful.  Isn't  money 
the  very  devil?  I'm  in  the  deuce  of  a  mess  over  it 
this  minute.  Don't  quite  see  yet  how  I'm  coming  out, 
but  I  may  strike  luck.  If  not,  they'll  probably  expel 
me.  I  bet  I  can  count  on  you  to  stick  by  me  in  that 
case.  But  I'd  sure  hate  to  disappoint  the  Mater. 

Hope  they're  treating  you  decently  where  you 
are.  If  not,  just  get  up  and  leave.  Don't  let  them 
try  to  put  anything  over.  You're  a  brick  anyhow. 
It'd  be  fine  if  there  were  more  like  you.  Here's 
wishing  you  luck. 

Yours, 

NED. 

Theodora's  salary  was  fifteen  dollars  a  week 
and  she  had  just  received  her  second  payment. 
She  sat  down  instantly  and  wrote: 

NED  DEAR, 

I  was  overjoyed  to  hear  from  you.  Sorry  about  the 
money  trouble.  Of  course,  I'd  stand  by  you;  but 
I  trust  nothing  need  happen.  I've  just  been  paid  and 
I  haven't  an  expense  in  the  world.  Thirty  dollars 
isn't  much,  I  know,  but  would  it  help  any?  You're 
more  than  welcome  to  it.  . 

I'll  write  soon  again — nearly  luncheon  time  now. 
Ned  dear,  I  don't  want  to  preach,  but  do  be  careful 
about  one  dreadful  thing.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
Oh,  Ned,  be  my  own  dear,  and  never  do  anything  of 
that  sort  again. 

Your  loving, 

BROWNIE. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  89 

The  sum  of  Theodora's  worldly  wealth  was  just 
thirty-five  dollars,  so  her  offer  was  no  small  act 
of  generosity.  She  had  planned  the  luxury  of 
pledging  herself  to  the  Red  Cross  for  ten  dollars 
a  month,  but  that  must  wait  over  now.  She'd 
have  to  content  herself  with  knitting  harder  than 
ever  at  the  grey  and  khaki  garments  which  Louise 
had  taught  her  to  make  from  the  apparently  in- 
exhaustible supply  of  wool  furnished  by  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the  house- 
party  guests  were  due  to  arrive,  Theodora  had 
Ned's  answer.  It  was  grateful  and  loving,  but 
it  absolutely  refused  the  offer  of  the  loan.  "Not 
on  your  tintype,"  wrote  the  boy.  "When  the 
day  comes  that  I  have  to  take  money  from  a  girl 
— and  a  girl  who  is  supporting  herself,  at  that — 
that'll  be  the  day  when  I  buy  a  revolver  and  shoot 
myself.  Don't  you  worry,  Brownie  old  girl,  I'll 
come  out  all  right." 

That  was  all.  Not  a  word  about  her  small 
warning;  but  the  girl  felt  happy,  nevertheless. 
Ned  wasn't  the  sort  to  lay  his  burdens  on  the 
shoulders  of  a  girl,  anyhow.  Dear  old  Ned! 

Theodora  realized  that  while  the  house-party 
lasted,  she  would  be  consigned  to  almost  total 
solitude;  especially  would  she  be  robbed  of  that 
daily  treat  that  she  had  come  so  to  anticipate. 
One  of  Mrs.  Stuyvesant' s  guests  would  always  be 
there  to  pour  tea,  thereby  saving  the  crippled  old 


QO  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

hands  and  dispensing  with  the  exclusive  services 
of  the  butler.  "  When  my  tea  must  be  poured  by 
a  servant,"  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  wont  to  say,  "I 
shall  cease  to  ask  my  friends  to  share  it  with  me." 

She  had  been  showing  quite  a  bit  of  concern  over 
the  lonely  evenings  in  store  for  her  companion. 
Could  Theodora  have  realized  how  little  anxiety 
her  predecessors  had  evoked,  she  would  have  been 
touched. 

"I  shall  be  all  right,"  she  kept  insisting.  "I 
love  to  read,  and  I'm  used  to  depending  on  myself. 
You  see,  I've  never  had  a  chance  to  be  gay." 

"You  must  spend  your  evenings  here  in  my 
boudoir.  You  can't  stay  all  day  and  all  night 
in  the  same  room.  Come  in  here  with  your  book 
or  your  writing,  and  stay  till  bedtime." 

"Thank  you,"  smiled  .Theodora.  "That  will 
be  lovely." 

It  was  from  that  boudoir  that  she  watched  the 
arrival  of  the  guests — Mrs.  Stuyvesant  having 
gone  to  her  bedroom  to  rest,  in  order  to  be  equal 
to  the  strain  of  dinner  and  the  evening. 

How  gay  they  all  looked  and  sounded!  The 
men  seemed  such  attractive  worldlings;  the  wom- 
en were  like  fashion-plates.  Their  merry  voices 
and  trilling  laughter  formed  a  pretty  accompani- 
ment to  the  deep  bass  of  the  men.  To  the  watch- 
ing girl,  it  was  like  a  scene  in  a  book  or  on  the 
stage.  How  wonderful  to  be  born  to  a  life  that 
flowed  always  among  such  settings. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  91 

Theodora  knew  all  the  arrangements.  The 
housekeeper  was  down  in  the  hall  with  a  list  of  the 
guests  and  of  the  suites  to  which  they  were  to  be 
assigned.  They  would  be  all  asked  whether  they 
would  take  their  tea  in  the  library,  or  have  it 
served  in  their  own  rooms.  How  was  it,  thought 
Theodora,  that  house-guests  invariably  arrived 
at  tea-time?  And  where  was  the  hand-luggage 
of  this  present  party?  After  all,  what  an  odd  sort 
of  reception  it  was,  when  one  came  to  think  of  it 
— almost  like  a  hotel  or  a  road-house.  A  room- 
clerk  assigning  quarters,  a  porter  sent  to  fetch 
trunks  and  bags,  no  sign  of  a  hostess  nor  of  a 
personal  welcome!  Theodora  giggled  a  little  at 
the  thought.  In  Waverly,  the  rare  guests  were 
always  met  at  the  train  by  some  member  of 
the  expectant  household,  their  hand-luggage  was 
assumed  and  carried — generally  amid  well-bred 
protests — and  their  final  exit  was  personally 
conducted  up  to  the  moment  when  their  train 
drew  out  amid  an  exchange  of  farewell  waves. 
Waverly  took  its  guests  seriously,  according  to 
the  rules  of  an  old-fashioned  courtesy  somewhat 
hampered  by  poverty.  It  was  never  neglectful 
of  the  formal  relationship  between  visitee  and 
visitor.  This  new  way  was  much  more  fun,  of 
course;  but  wasn't  it  also  much  more  selfish? 
People  were  too  spoiled  to  be  bothered  with  old- 
time  manners.  "  Give  us  your  best,"  they  seemed 
to  say,  "and  let  us  alone."  Or,  "Come  to  my 


92  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

house  and  enjoy  all  you  can,  but  for  pity's  sake 
don't  expect  me  to  disarrange  my  personal 
programme  on  your  account." 

The  question  of  hand-luggage  was  soon  settled 
for  the  waiting  girl.  A  station  omnibus  rolled 
up  to  a  side-door  and  disgorged  a  small  army  of 
maids  and  men,  rendered  almost  invisible  by  their 
burden  of  hat-boxes,  top-coats,  and  valises. 

Soon  halls  were  a-flutter.  The  guests  must  all 
have  elected  to  go  to  the  library  for  their  tea  and 
drinks.  The  tap  of  high  heels,  the  frou-frou  of 
lacy  tea-gowns,  and  the  wafting  of  faint  perfumes 
testified  to  their  passing.  Then  again,  from 
downstairs,  ascended  laughter  and  voices,  the 
faint  rattle  of  china,  the  tinkling  of  ice  against 
glass,  the  hiss  of  a  siphon. 

If  a  house-party  could  so  set  veins  a-tingle  at 
this  distance,  what  must  it  not  be  at  close  range? 
Theodora  had  a  premonition  that  she  should 
presently  grow  sad  and  homesick  unless  she  pulled 
herself  together. 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Theodora  Winthrop,"  she 
admonished  herself.  "You  can't  have  every- 
thing. Suppose  you  were  still  in  Waverly,  with 
no  money  and  no  chance  to  earn  any !  Be  thank- 
ful for  your  good  luck!" 

She  hadn't  much  appetite  for  dinner,  however, 
and  for  a  wonder  she  couldn't  fix  her  mind  on  a 
book  afterward.  It  was  an  unusual  occasion  when 
that  solace  failed  her. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  93 

About  nine  o'clock  she  decided  she  might  as 
well  go  to  bed.  The  thought  had  barely  crossed 
her  mind,  when  the  door  of  the  boudoir  was 
pushed  open  and  a  man  entered.  Seeing  Theodora 
he  paused. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "This  is  still 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  room,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Theodora.  "I'm  her  com- 
panion, Miss  Winthrop." 

"And  I'm  her  nephew.  It's  awfully  nice  to 
meet  you,  Miss  Winthrop.  I've  been  hearing 
quite  a  bit  about  you,  of  late." 

Looking  at  this  man,  Theodora  couldn't  help 
wondering  if  he  were  a  fair  sample  of  those  down- 
stairs. If  so,  she  certainly  had  a  right  to  be  de- 
pressed over  her  isolation.  It  would  not  be  much 
to  say  that  he  was  the  most  attractive-looking 
man  she  had  ever  seen — she  who  had  seen  so  few ; 
more  to  the  point  would  be  the  fact  that  many  a 
woman  of  excessive  worldly  experience  considered 
him  quite  the  most  attractive  man  on  her  list. 
Tall,  blond,  bonny,  soigne,  with  a  fascinating  look 
of  friendliness  in  his  laughing  grey  eyes  and  with 
that  immediately  interested  manner  that  all  wom- 
en love,  he  was  evidently  one  of  those  fortunates 
to  whom  all  the  world  holds  out  quick  hands  of 
welcome. 

Feeling  that  she  was  staring  rather  stupidly, 
Theodora  blushed  a  bit.  "Can  I  do  anything 
for  you?"  she  asked  primly. 


94  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Can  you?  Well,  I  wonder.  My  aunt  sent 
me  to  ask  her  maid  for  a  certain  scarf.  You 
might  find  that,  if  it  wouldn't  be  troubling  you 
too  much.  But  after  all,  that  would  be  more  of 
a  service  to  her  and  her  maid  than  to  me,  wouldn't 
it?" 

"Which  scarf  did  she  want?" 

"The  white  Spanish  lace.  And  do  you  know, 
I'm  beginning  to  think  I'll  accept  that  offer  of 
yours,  and  let  you  do  something  for  me,  as  you  so 
kindly  suggest." 

Theodora  could  control  her  lips  better  than  her 
eyes.  She  dropped  the  latter  hastily,  but  not 
before  her  companion  had  seen  in  them  that  which 
made  his  own  smile. 

"I'm  going  to  let  you  into  a  secret,"  he  said, 
with  the  most  engaging  air  of  camaraderie.  "  I'm 
bored  to  tears  tonight.  I  don't  happen  to  feel 
like  Bridge,  and  I've  been  talking  all  through  a 
stupid  dinner.  I'm  going  to  take  this  thing  down" 
(Theodora  had  found  the  scarf  for  him),  "and 
then,  if  you'll  let  me,  I'm  coming  back  here  to 
smoke  a  cigarette.  May  I?  And  will  you  wait 
forme?" 

"  But  you  couldn't  smoke  here." 

"I  couldn't?  No,  I  suppose  not.  How  about 
that  little  writing-room  at  the  end  of  the  nprth 
corridor?  It  isn't  as  cosy  as  this,  but  it  might 
do  at  a  pinch." 

Theodora  shook  her  head.     "I  couldn't  meet 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  95 

you    there,    if     that's    what     you     mean,"     she 
said. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  mean.  I'm  glad  you're 
quick  at  catching  meanings — it  helps  such  a  lot.". 
(He  had  the  most  beguiling  smile;  so  gay  and 
friendly.)  "Well,"  he  continued,  "the  smoke  is 
negligible  after  all.  The  important  part  of  our 
bargain  is  that  you'll  wait  for  me  here.  You  will, 
won't  you?  I'll  sit  and  look  at  a  cigarette,  and 
think  how  well  worth  while  was  its  relinquish- 
ment.  In  just  a  moment  then —  "  and  he  started 
for  the  door. 

"But  what  will  they  think  of  your  absence?" 
cried  Theodora. 

"Nothing — for  the  reason  that  they  won't 
know  of  it.  In  the  first  place,  my  particular 
side-partner  dropped  out  of  the  party  at  the  last 
minute — some  important  war  work  kept  her,  to 
my  aunt's  very  great  disgust.  You  may  have 
noticed  that  she  hates  to  have  her  plans  upset. 
That  leaves  me,  you  see,  an  unattached  blessing, 
and  at  the  same  time  makes  the  party  uneven. 
At  the  best  of  times,  I  can't  flatter  myself  that 
I'm  indispensable  to  happiness,  and  under  present 
circumstances  my  absence  would  be  a  positive 
boon.  The  card-sharks  will  think  I'm  in  the 
drawing-room  engaged  in  sweet  converse.  The 
others  will  take  it  for  granted  that  I'm  playing 
Bridge  in  the  library.  If  anyone  misses  me — not 
that  I  flatter  myself  that  they  will — I  shall  be 


96  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

accredited  with  a  te"te-a-te"te  in  the  conservatory. 
I've  been  known  to  stoop  as  low  as  that." 

He  spoke  very  fast,  as  though  to  forestall  any 
objection  on  the  part  of  his  companion.  "You'll 
wait?"  he  urged. 

"I  don't  think  I  should " 

"But  why  not?" 

"Well,  because " 

"The  usual  delightful  feminine  reason.  Some- 
how, it  always  fails  to  convince  me.  You  are 
expected  to  be  in  this  room,  I  take  it?" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  particularly  told  me  to 
spend  my  evenings  here." 

"Exactly.  And  I  have  had  the  run  of  the 
house  all  my  life.  So  you  see,  it' sail  right.  Where 
is  my  aunt's  maid?" 

"  Downstairs.     She'll  be  there  till  bedtime." 

"And  by  that  time,  you'll  be  in  your  own 
quarters,  and  I  shall  have  rejoined  the  boring 
crowd.  .  .  .  Wait  for  me.  .  .  .  Please.  ..."  And 
he  was  out  of  the  room  before  she  could  say  either 
yes  or  no. 

Of  course,  she  waited.  In  the  first  place,  be- 
cause his  logic — though  not  entirely  flawless — 
was  plausible;  in  the  second  place,  because  she 
so  much  wanted  to;  and  in  the  third  place,  be- 
cause that  course  meant  merely  inaction,  while 
any  other  would  have  meant  action.  "I  know 
he  isn't  coming  back,"  she  told  herself;  "I'm  not 
so  silly  as  to  believe  that  he  is" — and  fell  to  wish- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  97 

ing  that  she  had  changed  her  frock,  as  on  other 
evenings.  And  then,  in  an  incredibly  short  time, 
he  was  there. 

The  lack  in  her  costume  was  in  no  wise  apparent 
to  him.  (Women  habitually  overrate  the  import- 
ance of  such  trifles.)  In  her  severe  blue  serge, 
with  its  snowy  collar  and  ruffles,  he  thought  she 
looked  wholly  charming. 

"Isn't  this  cosy?"  he  ejaculated.  An  open 
fire  was  crackling  and  sputtering,  and  the  lamp- 
light was  soft  and  shaded.  Drawing  a  deep  chair 
near  the  fire  for  Theodora,  the  man  took  another, 
which  he  carefully  placed  so  as  to  get  the  best 
view  of  her.  "So  you're  my  aunt's  new  compan- 
ion," he  began,  as  he  settled  himself  comfortably 
in  its  depths,  "and  your  name  is  Miss  Winthrop. 
What  goes  in  front  of  that?" 

"Theodora." 

"Theodora  Winthrop!  How  awfully  pretty! 
And  you  look  just  like  it,  too." 

"  And  you're  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  nephew?  "  Theo- 
dora rejoined  a  little  hastily. 

"Yes.  Beeckman  by  name.  Alan,  to  my 
friends.  Are  you  of  a  friendly  disposition,  Miss 
Winthrop?  If  not,  I'm  disappointed,  for  your 
looks  belie  you." 

They  both  laughed. 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourself,  shut  up  here 
alone?"  continued  the  man;  "a  young  thing  like 
you!" 


98  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Have  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  other  companions 
been  older  than  I?" 

"Well,  rather!  At  least  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
I  should  think." 

Theodora  gave  a  little  unconscious  sigh  which 
did  not  escape  her  companion.  "It's  tough,"  he 
thought  sympathetically. 

"Tell  me  about  the  party,"  begged  the  girl  sud- 
denly. "Is  it  very  gay?" 

"By  no  means.  Just  so-so.  Not  up  to  my 
aunt's  usual  standard.  She's  clever  at  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know.  But  this  time  she  struck  hard 
luck.  As  I  told  you,  the  nicest  girl — in  fact,  from 
my  standpoint,  the  only  really  interesting  girl — 
didn't  come."  (Theodora  edged  mentally  away 
from  the  thought  of  this  girl.  Perfection  is  ad- 
mittedly irritating.  To  be  able  to  turn  down  a 
wonderful  house-party  at  the  last  minute  and  to 
leave  everyone  mourning  for  you,  is  really  too 
much  luck.) 

"  I  wish  you  were  downstairs,"  said  the  man  sud- 
denly. "Not  at  this  moment,  naturally, — but  as 
a  member  of  the  crowd.  I  assure  you  it  would 
help  a  lot."  He  smiled,  and  nodded  at  her  in  such 
a  friendly  way  that  she  felt  happier,  at  once.  "  He 
sees  no  insuperable  bar  to  my  eligibility,"  she 
thought,  and  took  much  comfort  from  the  fact. 

"I  watched  you  all  come,"  she  confessed,  "  and  it 
looked  fascinating — 

"No,  I'm  inclined  to  think  your  term  is  too 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  99 

strong.  I  should  certainly  save  that  word  for  a 
more  appropriate  use.  It's  the  usual  crowd.  .  .  . 
You  see,  my  aunt  has  spoiled  her  guests.  Her 
standard  is  generally  well  above  average." 

Silence  fell.  Theodora  hastened  to  break  it; 
this  man  mustn't  find  it  stupid  both  upstairs  and 
down.  " I  suppose,"  she  said,  "the  girl  who  didn't 
come  was  Miss  Gary?  You  see,  I  wrote  the  invi- 
tations and  I  remember  there  were  very  few  un- 
married girls.  I  think  I  wrote  'Miss'  on  only  two 
envelopes?" 

She  had  paid  for  her  nervous  haste  by  bringing 
the  talk  back  to  the  unwelcome  subject  of  that 
wonderful  girl. 

"  No,"  said  Beeckman,  "the  girl  who  didn't  come 
is  Miss  Helen  Burrill,  and  she's  simply  a  peach; 
I  hope  you'll  meet  her  some  day.  She's  the  clever- 
est girl  I  know — does  everything  wonderfully. 
She  dances  beautifully — really  beautifully — and 
her  game  of  Bridge  is  so  remarkable  that  there 
isn't  a  man  in  town  who  wouldn't  run  a  mile  to 
play  with  her.  And  yet  with  it  all,  her  one  idea  is 
doing  good — charity  work,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
She's  so  full  of  war  work  now  that  I  doubt  if  she 
would  have  even  dreamed  of  accepting  this  invita- 
tion, except  as  a  kindness  to  my  aunt  who  is  per- 
fectly devoted  to  her." 

(How  he  loved  to  talk  about  this  paragon !) 

"Little  Marjorie  Gary,  now,"  went  on  the  man, 
"is  quite  a  different  sort  of  proposition.  In  the 


ioo  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

first  place,  she  is  a  mere  child.  This  is  her  first 
season.  She  and  her  youthful  swain  make  an  ex- 
ceedingly incongruous  element  in  this  particular 
crowd  that  my  aunt  has  gathered.  But  there's  a 
strong  reason  for  their  presence.  It's  quite  a  ju- 
venile romance ! ' ' 

Urged  by  the  eagerness  of  Theodora's  eyes,  he 
began  to  tell  her  about  it,  then  suddenly  pulled 
himself  up.  "But  this  must  bore  you  terribly," 
he  cried.  "  Let's  talk  of  something  more  interest- 
ing— you,  for  instance." 

But  she  wouldn't  let  him.  "No,  no,"  she  in- 
sisted. "I'm  longing  to  hear  about  this  romance 
—that  is,  if  you  don't  mind  telling  me?  " 

"  I'd  love  to.  Well,  to  begin  at  the  beginning, 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant — who,  by  the  way,  is  my  great- 
aunt — is  childless.  She  lost  an  only  son  some 
years  ago 

"Yes,  I  know.     Dr.  Powers  told  me." 

"All  about  it?" 

"No.     Just  that." 

"Ever  since  his  death  my  aunt  has  seemed  to 
cling  particularly  to  her  one  niece  anoVher  two  great- 
nephews — my  cousin,  Van  Rensselaer  Beeckman, 
and  me.  We  three  are  nearer  to  her  than  anyone 
else.  Her  niece  is  Mrs.  Gary — the  mother  of  this 
little  witch  downstairs.  By  the  way,  Marjorie  is 
exactly  the  same  relation  to  Aunt  Honora  as  Van 
and  I  are,  but  she's  so  young  she  seems  a  generation 
farther  off.  Aunt  Honora  is  her  godmother,  as 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  101 

well  as  her  great-aunt;  and,  like  everyone  else 
who  knows  her,  she  is  the  child's  slave." 

"Is  she  lovely,  this  little  Miss  Gary?"  asked 
Theodora. 

"Simply  lovely.  The  most  entrancing  piece  of 
spoiled  prettiness  I  ever  saw.  She's  an  only  child, 
and  in  her  whole  life  she's  never  once  been  crossed. 
Well,  about  a  year  ago,  while  she  was  still  in  school, 
what  did  she  do  but  proceed  to  fall  desperately  in 
love  with  an  ineligible — some  young  cub  that  she'd 
met  at  a  college  'prom.'  It  came  to  the  point 
where  the  family  took  alarm,  but  it  was  too  late. 
They  merely  succeeded  in  fanning  the  flame;  fami- 
lies are  so  stupid  about  such  matters.  If  they'd 
let  Marjorie  alone,  the  whole  thing  would  prob- 
ably have  died  out.  Still,  it  mightn't.  There  does 
appear  to  be  such  a  thing  as  true  love." 

"But  they're  so  young!" 

"Too  young  for  love,  do  you  think?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     Tell  me  more  about  it. 
I'm  quite  thrilled." 

"You  see,  in  addition  to  their  extreme  youth — 
which  is  urged  as  the  main  objection,  because 
everyone  thinks  the  child  will  change  her  mind 
when  she's  older — there's  another  crime  laid  at  the 
boy's  door.  He  isn't  a  member  of  the  particular 
little  set  in  which  Marjorie  was  born  and  must 
marry.  ...  I  hope,  Miss  Winthrop,  you  ap- 
preciate the  enormity  of  that  charge?" 

"I   know   all  about  the  traditions  of  blood, 


IO2  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

and  the  way  they  can  hamper  one,"  nodded 
Theodora. 

"I'll  warrant  you  do,"  thought  her  companion. 
Aloud,  he  said:  "The  Garys  admit  that  this  boy 
is  a  nice  fellow,  good-looking  and  well-bred,  but 
they  had  set  their  hearts  on  something  different 
for  their  small  princess.  .  .  .  He  hasn't  a  red 
cent,  I'm  told,  but  that  needn't  matter.  Marjorie 
has  more  than  enough  for  both  of  them." 

"But  why  is  she  here?     Is  the  boy  here,  too?" 

"Heavens,  no!  She's  here  to  be  weaned  away 
from  him." 

"With  her  mother?  I  remember  writing  to  a 
Miss  Marjorie  Gary,  but  I  didn't  write  to  any  Mrs. 
Gary,  I'm  sure." 

' '  No,  she  wasn't  asked.  Marjorie  has  conceived 
the  notion  that  all  her  family  are  spying  on  her  and 
trying  to  separate  her  from  her  true  love — and  at 
that,  she  isn't  far  wrong.  However,  things  have 
come  to  the  point  where  she  is  cold  to  her  mother, 
and  suspects  every  servant  in  the  house  of  being  a 
detective  and  a  talebearer.  Mrs.  Gary  is  break- 
ing her  heart  over  the  affair,  and  my  aunt — with 
her  usual  assurance  of  being  equal  to  every  issue — 
has  asked  the  child  up  here,  together  with  a  youth- 
ful swain  on  whom  the  family  would  smile." 

"But  he  must  be  young,  too." 

"He  is;  but  by  this  time  they're  so  worried 
they'd  waive  that  point  in  favor  of  his  eligibility. 
The  families  have  been  friends  for  generations,  and 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  103 

all  that  sort  of  thing.  And  they've  concluded  that 
you  can't  have  everything.  Just  the  same,  it's 
the  most  absurdly  managed  piece  of  work  I  ever 
saw;  absolutely  bungled!  They'll  merely  succeed 
in  making  her  hate  a  nice  chap  she  might  otherwise 
come  to  like.  What  girl  ever  found  any  fellow 
attractive  when  she  was  desperately  in  love  with 
another?  And  what  spoilt  child  wouldn't  fight 
like  the  very  devil  to  get  the  first  thing  that  had 
ever  been  denied  her  ? " 

"I  wish  I  could  see  her,"  cried  Theodora.  "Is 
she  so  very  pretty?" 

"Perfectly  lovely.  The  prettiest  child  I  ever 
saw.  .  .  .  Now,  Miss  Winthrop,  I've  done 
nothing  but  talk.  Do  tell  me  something  about 
yourself  and  your  life  here  ?  Is  it  fairly  pleasant  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed!     I'm  awfully  happy." 

"Not  very  gay  for  a  young  person  of  your  years, 
I  should  think.  How  do  you  spend  your  days?" 

Theodora  sketched  him  a  brief  outline.  He 
looked  at  her  rather  wonderingly.  "Don't  you 
ever  get  blue? "  he  asked. 

"Not  often.  I  was  just  a  little  bit  homesick 
tonight;  you  see,  this  is  the  very  first  time  I've 
ever  been  away  from  home.  While  I  was  eating 
my  dinner  I  could  catch  an  occasional  murmur  of 
the  voices  downstairs  there,  and  it  made  me  feel 
lonely.  But  that  was  silly,  of  course." 

"It's  a  perfect  shame,"  exclaimed  the  man  im- 
pulsively. "I'll  tell  you  something,  though.  In 


104  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

a  fortnight  or  so,  Helen — that  is,  Miss  BurriU — 
and  I  are  coming  out  here  for  a  little  visit  before 
my  aunt  returns  to  town.  Just  a  quiet  little  visit 
— that's  the  kind  Miss  Burrill  likes  best.  When 
that  happens,  you'll  spend  all  the  evenings  down- 
stairs with  us,  I'm  sure.  You  see,  we'll  be  just 
four  for  Bridge.  You  play,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  I  play.  But  not  in  the  class  with  you 
and  Miss  Burrill.  My  game  would  bore  you  to 
death." 

"I  assure  you  it  wouldn't.  I'll  just  stump  you 
to  bore  me  to  death,  Miss  Winthrop."  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly he  began  to  laugh,  as  at  some  memory. 
"We  had  the  warmest  discussion  at  dinner  to- 
night," he  said.  "I  never  saw  my  aunt  more 
excited.  And  on  such  an  odd  subject,  too;  by  no 
means  the  sort  of  thing  that  ordinarily  interests 
her.  It  was  a  question  of  good  English." 

"Good  English?" 

"Yes.  Aunt  Honora  asked  us  if  we  had  ever 
heard  anyone  use  the  'absurd'  term  'would better' 
in  place  of  'had  better' ' 

Theodora  sat  up  quickly,  eyes  shining.  "And 
what  did  you  say?"  she  demanded. 

The  man  looked  at  her  admiringly.  "By  Jove," 
he  cried,  "I  believe  she's  been  throttling  you  on 
that  subject 

The  girl  nodded.  "It  was  on  my  very  first 
day  here,"  she  answered.  "What  did  you  say 
about  it,  Mr.  Beeckman?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  105 

"I  told  her  it  was  grammatically  correct,  of 
course." 

"Which?     Would,  or  had?" 

"Would." 

Theodora  clapped  her  hands  in  delight.  "Did 
you  convince  her?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly  not.  So  you  stood  up  to  her  too, 
did  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Good!  Keep  it  up,  Miss  Winthrop.  It's  the 
only  way.  She'll  like  you  all  the  better  for  it — 
though,  of  course,  she'd  never  admit  it.  I  believe 
my  one  hold  over  her  is  that  I  never  in  my  life 
knuckled  to  her.  She's  a  perfect  old  dear,  of 
course,  and  a  wonder.  But  she's  just  a  trifle — 
well,  autocratic.  So  you  struck  it  the  first  day? 
I'll  bet  quite  a  bit  that  it  takes  more  than  that  to 
frighten  you!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  lost  my  temper." 

The  man  smiled.  "I  like  spirit,"  he  observed. 
"I  inherit  that  from  my  aunt." 

A  clock  chimed  ten.  Beeckman  looked  up  in- 
credulously. "By  Jove,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a 
short  hour!  And  also,  what  a  charming  one!" 
Rising,  he  walked  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood  look- 
ing down  on  Theodora.  "What's  your  morning 
programme?"  he  asked. 

"The  poodles  first,"  she  replied.  "I  exercise 
them  immediately  after  my  breakfast." 

"And  that  is?" 


io6  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"About  eight  o'clock." 

"Lucky  little  beasts,"  he  ejaculated.  "I'm 
glad  they're  sufficiently  intelligent  to  appreciate 
their  advantages.  .  .  .  Well,  good-night,  Miss 
Winthrop.  You've  given  me  a  charming  time." 
And  he  held  out  his  hand. 

After  his  departure,  Theodora  betook  herself  to 
her  room  feeling  both  excited  and  depressed.  What 
fun  it  had  been,  and  how  soon  it  was  over !  Prob- 
ably she'd  never  see  him  again — unless  indeed,  the 
second  visit  came  to  pass  as  he  had  predicted. 
What  would  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  think  of  this  even- 
ing's performance,  if  she  ever  came  to  hear  of  it? 
Would  she  object?  Almost  certainly  she  would. 
Yet  on  what  grounds  ?  Theodora  met  her  guests 
in  her  library,  and  chatted  with  them  there.  She 
was  certainly  well  within  her  rights  in  spending 
her  evening  in  the  room  assigned  to  her  use.  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  had  herself  sent  her  nephew  for  that 
scarf.  And  finally,  if  a  man  came  into  the  room 
where  one  happened  to  be  sitting,  one  couldn't 
imitate  a  deaf  mute,  could  one? 

All  very  pretty  reasoning.  Nevertheless,  Theo- 
dora knew  quite  well  that  the  damning  point  lay 
in  the  fact  that  she  had  waited  for  Beeckman's 
return  at  his  suggestion.  There  was  no  comfort- 
able obliquity  in  her  moral  vision.  "I  shouldn't 
have  done  it,"  she  acknowledged — and  smiled. 

It  was  astonishing  how  long  she  thought  of  her 
new  acquaintance  before  she  slept,  how  she  went 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  107 

over  her  conversation  with  him  word  by  word. 
She  was  still  harking  back  to  it  in  memory  the  next 
morning  when  she  started  out  in  the  dewy  autumn 
freshness  with  her  two  intelligent  canine  compan- 
ions— thinking  so  hard,  that  for  a  moment  she 
failed  to  recognize  the  figure  that  advanced  to 
meet  her.  When  she  finally  saw  who  it  was,  an 
extra  wave  of  color  leaped  to  her  cheeks,  making 
them  worthy  of  the  admiration  accorded  them  by 
the  man  who,  cap  in  hand,  stood  blocking  her  path. 

"Mr.  Beeckman,"  she  gasped. 

"The  reward  of  virtue,"  smiled  the  man;  "from 
my  standpoint,  that  is  to  say.  While  all  those  lazy 
people  up  there  are  wasting  the  best  part  of  the 
day  in  bed,  I'm  out  for  exercise — and  finding  pleas- 
ure. How  are  my  clever  friends,  Blanchette  and 
Poilu?  Do  they  still  prefer  French  to  English?" 

"They're  said  to." 

"Then  suppose  you  and  I  talk  English,"  he  sug- 
gested, "and  leave  them  out  of  the  conversation. 
It  will  be  two  duets  instead  of  a  quartet.  I've 
always  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling,  anyhow,  that 
those  dogs  sneered  secretly  at  my  stupidity. 
Don't  you  think  they're  very  subtle?" 

For  a  delightful  hour  he  walked  with  Theodora 
along  the  country  roads,  through  the  little  village, 
even  on  beyond  it  (the  mentality  of  the  poodles 
demanding  variety  of  scene) .  When  they  reached 
the  park  gates  on  their  return,  Beeckman  paused. 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  you  here  and  walk  on  a  bit," 


io8  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

he  said.  "Au  revoir,  Miss  Winthrop.  There's 
nothing  like  early  morning  exercise,  is  there?" 

Theodora  entered  the  park  alone.  As  she 
neared  the  house  she  became  aware  of  gay  groups 
dotted  over  the  lawns.  The  beautiful  day  had 
evidently  tempted  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  guests  out 
betimes.  Some  were  climbing  into  motors,  some 
were  amusing  themselves  on  the  charming  little 
clock-golf  course — with  its  mimic  lakes  and  bridges, 
some  were  mounting  horses  held  by  waiting  grooms, 
and  others  seemed  to  be  starting  for  a  tramp. 
Theodora  altered  her  course,  meaning  to  avoid 
them  all  by  approaching  the  house  from  the  side. 
As  she  walked  along  a  shaded  path,  she  found  her- 
self facing  a  youthful  pair — a  girl  and  a  boy — who 
were  seemingly  in  the  midst  of  a  quarrel.  The 
girl's  head  was  up  and  her  face  was  aflame;  the 
boy  followed  a  little  in  her  wake,  evidently  seeking 
a  hearing.  Suddenly  spying  Theodora  and  the 
two  poodles,  the  girl  made  a  bee-line  for  them. 

"Oh,  the  darling  dogs,"  she  cried.  "Go  away, 
Billy,  they  don't  know  you  and  they're  very  nerv- 
ous and  high-strung.  They  hate  strangers,  don't 
they?"  (This  last  to  Theodora,  and  in  a  beseech- 
ing tone.)  "  I'm  an  old  friend,  and  I  want  to  talk 
French  to  them.  That's  all  they  understand. 
.  .  .  Don't  you  hear  me,  Billy?  Go  on  around 
to  the  front  and  wait  for  me.  I'll  join  you  in  a 
minute." 

The  young  fellow  could  do  no  less  than  withdraw 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  109 

slightly,  though  he  did  it  with  a  bad  grace.  He 
managed  still  to  keep  well  in  sight.  Theodora 
knew  instantly  that  the  girl  must  be  that  Marjorie 
of  whom  she  had  been  hearing — and  certainly  she 
was  lovely,  as  Mr.  Beeckman  had  said.  She  had 
the  features  of  a  cameo,  and  her  eyes  were  the  eyes 
of  a  dove.  She  knelt  over  the  dogs,  as  though  to 
caress  them,  and  suddenly  began  to  speak  very  low 
and  very  fast. 

"You're  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  companion,  aren't 
you  ?  Do  you  speak  French  ? ' ' 

"Yes."  " 

"Kneel  down  then,  as  if  we  were  both  stroking 
Poilu.  There,  so!  I  want  to  implore  you  to  do 
me  a  favour.  It's  quite  all  right — a  mere  nothing. 
I  simply  have  to  send  a  telegram,  and  I'm  watched 
like  a  convict.  All  the  servants  are  spying  on  me 
I'm  sure,  and  if  I  attempt  to  telephone  a  telegram, 
I'll  be  overheard.  My  mail  is  watched  and  my 
maid  is  a  traitor.  Won't  you  be  an  angel,  and 
walk  to  the  village  with  this  message?  I  give  you 
my  word  that  it's  all  right.  .  .  .  It's  all  written 
out,  on  the  chance  of  finding  a  way.  .  .  .  The 
money's  inside.  Don't  bother  about  change;  of 
course,  I  don't  mean  it  as  a  gift "  (this  with  a  lovely 
blush),  "but  just  let  it  go.  Put  it  in  the  alms-ba- 
son, or  hand  it  over  to  a  servant.  Anything.  But 
for  Heaven's  sake,  get  the  message  off  for  me.  I'll 
bless  you  for  ever.  I  swear  to  you  that  it's  all 
right.  .  .  .  Don't  trust  the  errand  to  any  one 


no  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

else,  will  you?  Please  do  it  yourself,  if  you  want  to 
help  a  poor  girl  out  of  a  barrel  of  trouble." 

During  the  whole  of  this  speech  she  kept  patting 
the  dogs — laying  her  soft  cheek  against  their  silky 
backs  quite  as  if  that  were  her  only  thought,  and 
smiling  up  into  Theodora's  face  in  perfect  imita- 
tion of  a  friendly  conversation.  The  youth  who 
watched  from  a  distance  could  certainly  have  seen 
nothing  suspicious.  Drawing  a  folded  handker- 
chief from  her  pocket,  the  girl  made  a  feint  of  using 
it,  saying  from  behind  its  thicknesses: 

"Put  down  your  hand  and  stroke  Blanchette. 
I'll  do  the  same.  Here,  take  this  handkerchief. 
.  .  .  Don't  unfold  it.  ...  Everything's  in- 
side it.  Thank  you  for  ever.  Good-bye"  And, 
with  a  sudden  brilliant  smile,  she  rose  and  ran  to 
rejoin  the  waiting  boy.  Theodora  could  hear  her 
coaxing  him  back  into  a  good  humour  as  they 
walked  off. 

For  her  own  part,  she  was  nonplussed.  She 
couldn't  accomplish  any  further  communication 
with  the  pretty  creature  who  had  blown  across  her 
path  like  a  perfumed  whirlwind;  she  couldn't  be- 
tray her  trust  without  a  word  of  explanation ;  she 
couldn't  turn  the  errand  over  to  a  servant;  and 
she  couldn't  consult  anyone.  Yet  she  was  de- 
cidedly uncomfortable  about  assuming  the  re- 
sponsibility. All  through  luncheon  she  argued 
the  matter  out  with  herself.  Her  final  decision 
was  that  she  must  do  as  she  had  been  requested. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  in 

Had  any  other  of  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  guests  asked  a 
service  of  her,  she  would  certainly  have  been  ex- 
pected to  comply.  Why,  then,  should  she  refuse 
this  child  simply  because  of  the  oddness  of  her 
demand?  Probably  the  matter  was  nothing  im- 
portant, after  all.  Possibly  a  mere  message  to  the 
forbidden  boy,  telling  him  of  her  whereabouts  and 
explaining  her  inability  to  write.  Certainly,  what- 
ever its  nature,  it  was  no  business  of  hers,  Theo- 
dora's. While  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  resting  she 
would  simply  walk  down  to  the  village  and  send  the 
message  from  the  telegraph  office  there.  What  it 
contained  was  not  her  affair;  if  she  had  been  asked 
to  post  a  letter,  she  would  never  have  demanded 
to  know  its  contents.  So  reasoned  Theodora,  from 
the  heights  of  her  twenty-one  years  of  wisdom  and 
from  the  wealth  of  her  Waverly  experience. 

She  carried  out  her  plan,  merely  handing  the 
folded  paper  to  the  woman  in  charge  of  the  office. 
"The  money  is  inside,"  said  Theodora.  "The 
message  is  not  mine  and  does  not  concern  me. 
Just  send  it,  please,  and  give  me  the  change." 

The  employee  took  her  pencil  and  ran  it  over  the 
words.  "What  is  the  name?"  she  asked  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone.  "It's  blurred  by  the  fold. 
It's  Charrington,  isn't  it?  Edward  F.  Charring- 
ton,  D.  K.  E.  Fraternity  House,  Yale  University. 
Is  that  right?" 


CHAPTER   VI 

As  the  clerk  read  off  the  address,  Theodora 
stared  at  her  in  absolute  bewilderment.  Then, 
into  her  eyes  there  crept  a  look  of  terror. 

"What!"  she  cried  sharply.  "Oh,  no,  that 
can't  be  right.  It  certainly  can't  be  right.  .  .  . 
No,  no"  (as  the  woman  shoved  the  message. over 
for  her  inspection),  "  I  don't  want  to  see  it .... 
It — it  isn't  mine.  Just  send  it,  please,  and  give 
me  the  change.  Don't  read  it  to  me.  It  doesn't 
concern  me  in  the  very  least." 

The  clerk  thought  she  was  a  lunatic.  "The 
signature  is  'Marjorie,'  I  think?"  she  said  freez- 
ingly,  as  she  pushed  a  little  pile  of  notes  and  silver 
back  across  the  sill.  There  must  have  been  a  bill 
of  some  size  enclosed  in  the  message. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  day  Theodora  could 
settle  to  no  task.  She  wandered  restlessly  around, 
turning  her  puzzle  over  and  over.  One  thing  was 
sure;  she  couldn't  betray  the  girl  who  had  trusted 
her,  and  that  meant  that  she  couldn't  consult  any 
one.  She  tried  to  comfort  herself  with  little 
Miss  Marjorie's  repeated  assurances  that  it  was 
"all  right."  She  thought  of  telegraphing  Ned  on 

112 


Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

her  own  account,  but  what  could  she  say?  She 
knew  nothing  of  the  contents  of  that  other  mes- 
sage. Of  one  thing  she  was  convinced :  this  could 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that  love  affair  of  which 
Mr.  Beeckman  had  spoken.  It  was  some  side 
issue.  Marjorie  Gary  had  met  Ned  somewhere 
and  was  telegraphing  to  him  for  help.  Ned  was  a 
go-between.  Perhaps  he  knew  her  lover.  Yes, 
that  must  be  it.  They  were  probably  college 
chums — perhaps  even  classmates.  Nothing  more 
than  that.  The  idea  of  Ned  as  the  hero  of  a  mad 
love  affair  was  too  absurd.  He  was  a  dear,  of 
course — but  he  was  just  Ned.  Besides,  he  wasn't 
in  love  with  anyone.  He'd  never  talked  about  any 
girl — never  even  brought  home  a  cherished  photo- 
graph to  exhibit.  He  wasn't  a  ladies'  man  in  the 
very  least  degree.  The  mere  thought  was  a 
joke. 

On  that  evening,  Theodora  was  even  less  capaci- 
tated for  reading  than  on  its  predecessor.  She  had 
changed  her  frock,  however,  in  order  to  eat  her 
solitary  dinner  in  a  pretty  light  one;  and  for  this 
fact  she  had  reason  to  be  glad,  for  shortly  after 
nine  o'clock  there  entered  to  her  Mr.  Alan 
Beeckman. 

All  through  the  early  part  of  their  conversation, 
he  kept  watching  her  oddly.  Finally,  as  though 
obeying  an  impulse,  he  spoke. 

"You  look  to  me  like  a  young  person  who  could 
keep  your  own  counsels,"  he  remarked.  Theodora, 

8 


H4  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

remembering  how  she  was  doing  so,  smiled  a  little 
palely. 

"I'm  going  to  make  a  confidante  of  you,"  said 
the  man.  "  I'm  in  a  bit  of  a  quandary.  You  see, 
I  pride  myself  on  being  something  of  a  psychologist 
and  something  of  an  amateur  Sherlock  Holmes. 
These  last  two  days  I've  been  taking  note  of  signs 
(aided  by  my  knowledge  of  facts),  and  unless  I'm 
grossly  mistaken,  there's  something  brewing  be- 
neath this  roof.  You  remember  the  pretty  child  I 
mentioned  last  evening — Marjorie  Gary?" 

Theodora's  heart  gave  a  great  lurch.  She 
nodded  her  head. 

"Well,  do  you  know,  I'm  almost  sure  she's  plan- 
ning an  elopement?" 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Theodora  sharply. 

"Yes.  She's  very  young  to  be  carrying  the 
burden  of  so  weighty  a  secret,  and  I've  been  watch- 
ing her  closely.  She  couldn't  manage  a  thing  of 
that  sort  in  the  daytime,  because  she's  never  alone. 
But  at  night  she'd  have  a  far  better  chance  here 
than  in  her  own  home.  I'd  be  willing  to  wager 
quite  a  bit  that  she  came  with  that  express  idea  in 
her  head." 

"But  how  can  she  plan  a  runaway  marriage," 
cried  poor  Theodora,  "if  the  boy  has  no  money?" 
(She  was  suddenly  oppressed  by  the  consciousness 
of  how  little  money  Ned  had.) 

"Oh,  they'd  merely  marry  to  avoid  permanent 
separation,  and  to  make  her  ineligible  to  any  other 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  115 

match  her  parents  might  plan.  She's  getting  des- 
perate. They'd  go  to  a  clergyman  or  a  Justice  of 
the  Peace — probably  the  latter — and  get  the  knot 
tied ;  then  she'd  go  home  and  he'd  return  to  college. 
Her  idea  would  be  that  she'd  bring  her  parents 
round  when  the  thing  was  settled — but  she  never 
made  a  bigger  mistake  in  her  life." 

"You  think  so,  if  they  adore  her  and  spoil  her 
and  give  her  everything  she  wants?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  You  see,  I  know  Kirkland 
Gary — her  father — as  well  as  I  know  myself.  He's 
as  stubborn  as  the  Old  Boy.  If  he  thinks  he's  been 
duped,  he's  adamant.  Marjorie  will  simply  ruin 
her  chances  for  life  by  this  wild  throw.  If  she'd 
stay  at  home,  refuse  to  go  out,  be  languid  and  sad- 
even  a  little  ill — pet  her  father  and  get  him  thor- 
oughly worried  about  her,  he'd  be  wax  in  her  hands 
by  spring.  But  with  the  devil-may-care  course 
she's  planning,  she's  inviting  a  lifelong  estrange- 
ment that  would  be  tragic  for  all  of  them.  The 
trouble  is  she  is  just  as  stubborn  as  her  father. 
They  both  balk  at  being  driven;  they  must  be 
led." 

"What  can  you  do?"  Theodora's  voice  was  wor- 
ried and  tense.  The  thought  of  that  telegram  was 
burning  into  her  brain. 

"I  shall  keep  watch.  You  see,  it  would  just 
about  kill  Aunt  Honora  if  that  little  minx  should 
succeed  in  eloping  from  here.  If  the  thing  is  to 
happen  at  all — and  mind  you,  I'm  convinced 


n6  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

that  it  is — it  must  happen  tonight  or  tomorrow 
night " 

"So  soon?" 

"Yes,  because  Marjorie's  booked  for  home  the 
next  day — she's  not  staying  as  long  as  the  rest  of 
us — and  her  maid  is  a  regular  duenna.  Once  back 
under  the  home  roof,  little  Miss  Marjorie's  chance 
is  gone.  So  I'm  going  to  keep  watch  for  two  nights. 
The  child's  room  is  immediately  opposite  that  little 
alcove  writing-room  in  the  north  corridor.  At 
bedtime  I'm  going  to  change  to  morning  clothes 
and  sit  there  all  night.  There's  a  curtain,  as  you 
know,  that  can  be  drawn  across  the  opening  of  the 
alcove,  and  every  sound  in  the  hall  can  still  be 
heard." 

"And  suppose  nothing  happens?" 

"So  much  the  better.  But  something  will,  I'm 
perfectly  certain.  Tonight,  or  tomorrow  night." 

"Why  don't  you  telegraph  her  parents?" 

"I  don't  want  them  to  know.  For  one  thing, 
I  expect  to  use  my  forbearance  as  a  rod  over  the 
child ;  for  another  thing,  it  would  ruin  in  advance 
the  clever  course  I'm  going  to  help  her  plan  out, 
when  once  I've  caught  her." 

"Couldn't  you  tell  her  first?" 

"  Miss  Winthrop,  your  sympathies  are  too  much 
on  the  feminine  side  of  this  thing.  Marjorie  would 
never  listen  to  me  unless  I  caught  her  red-handed. 
She'd  probably  deny  the  whole  thing — and  what 
proof  have  I?  No,  I  must  trap  her  in  the  act. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  117 

Her  parents  mustn't  know,  the  servants  mustn't 
know,  and  my  aunt  mustn't  know." 

"And  if  it  doesn't  happen  tonight?" 

"Then  I  must  try  again  tomorrow  night — and 
there  lies  the  one  flaw  in  my  almost  perfect  scheme. 
I'm  horribly  afraid  I  shall  doze  off  the  second  night. 
She  might  slip  me — the  minx!  The  trouble  is 
that  I  can  never  sleep  in  the  daytime " 

"Mr.  Beeckman,"  said  the  girl  suddenly,  "if 
nothing  happens  tonight,  let  me  go  on  watch  to- 
morrow night." 

' '  You !    Never  in  the  world ! ' ' 

"Please!  I  beg  of  you  to  let  me!  I  can  stay 
awake  beautifully  and  I — I  have  a  very  special 
reason  for  wanting  to  help.  Please,  please  let 
me." 

With  every  passing  moment,  Theodora  was 
getting  more  worried  over  the  sending  of  that 
telegram.  She  realized  that  she  had  acted  very  un- 
wisely— to  put  it  at  its  mildest.  If  her  own  cousin, 
Ned  Charrington,  the  boy  who  was  almost  like 
her  brother,  had  indeed  been  asked  to  help  in  any 
such  miserable  business  as  an  elopement,  what  a 
terrible  complication  it  would  make.  Here  was 
she,  Theodora,  occupying  a  trusted  position  in  the 
Stuyvesant  household  and  subject  to  really  con- 
siderable kindness;  here  was  Mrs.  Stuyvesant, 
adoring  the  wilful  girl  to  whom  she  was  both  aunt 
and  godmother,  and  deprecating  a  marriage  which 
she  considered  a  grave  mistake:  here  was  Ned, 


n8  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

cousin  to  Theodora,  possibly  aiding  Miss  Mar- 
jorie's  wild  scheme;  and  all  within  three  weeks  of 
the  day  when  Theodora  had  first  seen  the  gates  of 
Fair  Acres!  Oh,  it  would  never  do — never  in  the 
world ! 

But  in  the  nick  of  time  had  come  the  chance  of 
reparation.  Theodora  glimpsed  it  with  breathless 
relief.  She  who  had  sent  that  awful  message 
could  at  least  balk  it  of  result — provided  that  it 
had  to  do  with  the  elopement. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  persuade  Beeckman,  but 
he  finally  yielded.  Theodora  harped  skilfully  on 
her  most  persuasive  string — the  danger  of  the 
man's  falling  asleep  and  of  thus  having  his  plans 
frustrated.  It  was  arranged  that  he  should  watch 
the  first  night,  and  she  the  next;  she  had  to  promise 
to  get  a  very  long  sleep  tonight,  in  order  to  be 
fortified  for  the  vigil. 

On  the  morrow,  Beeckman  again  shared  her 
morning  ramble.  He  showed  the  loss  of  sleep,  and 
nothing  had  happened.  When  he  came  up  to  the 
boudoir,  that  evening,  they  arranged  the  night's 
programme.  Theodora  was  to  sit  in  her  own  room 
until  the  house  was  quiet.  She  was  then  to  go  to 
the  writing-room  and  keep  watch  there.  At  the 
slightest  sound,  she  was  to  peep  through  the  crack 
between  the  curtains.  And  finally,  if  little  Miss 
Marjorie  were  indeed  in  flight,  Theodora  was  to 
allow  her  time  to  get  past  the  turn  in  the  hall,  then 
she  was  to  hurry  to  Beeckman' s  door  and  give 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  119 

three  taps ;  he  would  be  fully  dressed,  even  though 
asleep. 

"The  moment  you're  sure  I'm  roused,"  he 
warned,  "hurry  to  your  own  room  and  go  to  bed. 
We  don't  want  any  scandal  over  this  thing." 

It  seemed  to  Theodora  that  the  house  would 
never  get  quiet,  and  the  lights  would  never  go  out. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  only  about  half-past 
one  when  she  took  her  eerie  walk  through  the  quiet 
halls  of  the  sleeping  house.  Her  own  room  was  far 
from  the  north  corridor,  and  as  she  crept  along 
she  wondered  if  she  could  indeed  be  that  same  girl 
who,  up  to  a  few  weeks  ago,  had  scarcely  ever  spent 
a  night  outside  a  simple  Waverly  bedroom,  had 
never  even  met  a  fascinating  young  man,  had  never 
assisted  at  any  sort  of  intrigue  whatsoever,  and 
had  regarded  an  elopement  as  sensational  claptrap ! 

Until  half-past  three,  Theodora  watched  fruit- 
lessly. She  was  beginning  to  hope  that  Beeckman 
had  been  mistaken  about  the  whole  thing,  when  her 
ear  caught  a  sound  in  the  hall.  It  was  scarcely  a 
breath — just  a  tiny  rustling,  a  carefully  turned 
knob,  the  brush  of  a  garment  against  a  door — all 
momentary,  all  slight  to  nothingness.  None  but 
the  most  keenly  strained  ear  would  have  noted  any- 
thing. It  was  a  dread  act,  in  that  tomblike  silence, 
even  to  part  the  curtains  for  a  peep.  But  the 
peep,  once  ventured,  revealed  the  quarry.  Little 
Miss  Marjorie  was  actually  in  flight.  Theodora's 
eyes,  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  discerned  the 


120  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

fact  that  the  fugitive  carried  nothing  but  a  small 
wrist-bag.  Evidently  her  progress  was  not  to  be 
hampered. 

Beeckman's  voice  answered  to  the  second  of 
Theodora's  timid  taps.  "All  right,"  he  whis- 
pered, "I'm  coming."  And  the  girl  sped  to  her 
own  quarters,  as  rapidly  as  was  consistent  with 
care. 

For  her,  that  ended  the  affair.  It  was  not  till 
Beeckman  joined  her,  later  in  the  morning,  that  she 
heard  how  well  the  thing  had  gone.  He  had  over- 
taken the  fleeing  girl  before  she  left  the  park. 
They  had  sat  down  in  a  little  summer-house,  and 
had  there  discussed  the  situation.  By  humouring 
the  sobbing  child  and  by  sympathizing  with  her, 
her  cousin  had  won  her  confidence.  The  whole 
world  was  in  league  against  her,  and  for  no  reason. 
She  would  never  give  up  the  man  she  loved,  nor 
could  anyone  show  any  reason  why  she  should. 
But,  fearing  her  family  would  finally  succeed  in 
driving  him  away,  she,  herself,  had  planned  this 
elopement,  and  had  begged  him  to  accede  to  it. 

"  From  his  standpoint,  you  see,"  said  Beeckman, 
"there  was  nothing  to  do  but  agree.  He  couldn't 
very  well  hang  back  when  his  girl  proposed  to  him." 

"Where  was  she  going?" 

"  She  was  about  to  walk  to  the  village,  where  she 
would  hire  a  motor  to  take  her  to  a  station  some 
miles  farther  south.  There  she  could  catch  a  very 
early  train  for  New  York.  Then  she  planned  to 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  121 

hurry  to  Stamford,  meet  her  waiting  swain,  marry 
him,  and  go  home  to  announce  the  fact  to  her  par- 
ents. You  see,  the  trouble  lies  in  the  fact  that 
they're  both  legally  of  age.  Marjorie  was  eighteen 
some  months  ago,  and  the  boy  has  passed  his 
twenty-first  birthday." 

"Mr.  Beeckman,"  said  Theodora  suddenly, 
"would  you  mind  telling  me  his  name?"  And 
the  next  moment  she  could  have  bitten  out  her 
tongue  because  of  the  question. 

"Certainly  not.  It's  Charrington.  He's  a 
junior  at  Yale." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Yes.  Why,  Miss  Winthrop?  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"Know  him?  He's  my  own  first  cousin — al- 
most my  twin  brother." 

It  was  the  man's  turn  to  be  astounded.  "What?" 
he  cried.  "And  you  knew  nothing  of  the  affair?" 

"  Not  a  word.  Not  a  suspicion.  Except  for  this 
absolute  proof,  I  would  have  vowed  that  it  couldn't 
be  so.  You  don't  think  that  there  could  be  two 
boys  with  the  same  name  in  that  class,  do  you?" 

Beeckman  shook  his  head. 

"But  Ned  couldn't  plan  marriage,"  cried  the 
girl.  "He  hasn't  a  penny." 

"But  you  forget;  he  didn't  plan  it.  Marjorie 
did.  The  ethics  of  twenty-one  would  make  it 
impossible  for  him  to  refuse  her.  ...  To  think 
of  his  being  your  cousin!" 


122  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"It's  awful,"  cried  poor  Theodora.  "I  mean, 
considering  my  position  in  this  house.  But,  Mr. 
Beeckman,  Ned  is  a  dear,  just  the  same." 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  You  see"  (with  a  smile),  "I 
also  have  Marjorie's  testimony  to  the  fact." 

' '  And, ' '  went  on  Theodora, ' '  he  is  well-born— 

"Why,  of  course  he  is!" 

"No;  you'd  say  that.  But  while  we're  on  the 
subject  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it.  ...  I 
haven't  been  in  this  house  three  weeks  without 
learning  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  ideas  about  social  posi- 
tion. She  thinks  that  nobody  is  anybody,  unless 
they  happen  to  be  born  in  her  particular  little  set. 
She  doesn't  even  admit  that  anyone  else  has  a  right 
as  much  as  to  think  of  birth  or  breeding.  .  .  . 
Now  to  me,  that  is  perfectly  ridiculous.  It  was 
the  greatest  surprise  that  awaited  me  here.  All 
my  life  I've  been  taught  that,  whatever  else  I 
might  lack,  I  had  ancestors,  at  least.  We've  all 
been  brought  up  to  a  pride  of  race  that  must  not 
be  dishonoured.  We've  been  told  that  it  was 
just  as  vulgar  to  brag  of  birth  as  to  brag  of  money, 
but  that  anyone  who  knew  anything  at  all,  could 
recognize  its  marks.  And  I  think  our  teaching 
was  right." 

The  man  was  regarding  her  in  admiration. 
"Certainly  it  was  right,"  he  agreed  heartily. 

"Well,  then,  you  can  see  that  it  is  a  little  irri- 
tating to  sit  with  sealed  lips,  and  hear  myself  and 
all  my  family  relegated  to  outer  darkness — not  by 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  125 

actual  word,  of  course,  but  by  manner.  Natu- 
rally, when  I  started  out  to  work,  I  didn't  expect 
people  to  be  bowing  around  and  congratulating  me 
on  my  ancestors"  (she  smiled  at  the  picture  her 
words  conjured) ;  "but  I  did  think  they'd  give  me 
credit  for  having  them." 

"And  take  my  word  for  it,  Miss  Winthrop, 
they  do.  You'll  have  plenty  of  proof  of  that. 
Fortunately,  people  are  not  fools.  You'll  never 
be  asked  for  any  credentials  of  that  sort.  My 
aunt — well,  she  likes  to  keep  people  decently 
modest — her  own  friends,  I  mean,  and  her  relatives. 
I  believe  she  regards  it  as  a  duty.  You  should  hear 
her  try  to  make  me  eat  humble  pie,  and  as  to  my 
cousin  Van — it's  as  good  as  a  play  to  hear  those 
two  together.  Yet  there's  no  question  but  that 
Aunt  Honora  is  perfectly  devoted  to  us  both." 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  though  to  censor  his 
own  words,  and  then  continued : 

"I  admit  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  arrogance 
in  New  York  society,  and  a  great  deal  of  snobbery. 
But  those  traits  are  not  confined  to  New  York. 
Surely,  Miss  Winthrop,  you  must  have  met  them 
elsewhere?" 

Theodora  thought  of  the  Duncan  sisters  and 
their  crowd  of  satellites.  In  Waverly,  she  herself 
had  happened  to  be  well  known  and  inside  the 
pale;  but  suppose  she  had  been  outside — and  a 
stranger !  Suppose  she  had  come  there  to  make  a 
living! 


124  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "I  have." 

"Exactly.  It's  merely  human  nature,  you  see. 
And  in  absolutely  every  instance,  the  situation  is 
created  by  the  fawners.  It's  always  their  fault. 
Those  who  are  constantly  fawned  upon  become 
either  irritated  or  vain.  They  are  made  to  think 
too  highly  of  themselves.  If  no  one  cared  a  fig 
about  them,  they  couldn't  possibly  care  so  much 
about  themselves.  Miss  Burrill  and  I  have  dis- 
cussed this  subject  with  my  aunt  till  she  vows 
we  are  both  disgusting  socialists.  But  as  to  your 
case,  I'm  sure  she  appreciates  you  tremendously. 
She  couldn't  help  it.  I  wish  you  could  see  your 
predecessors — then  you'd  understand." 

Theodora  was  beginning  to  feel  very  happy  and 
light-hearted.  She  reverted  to  the  subject  of  the 
attempted  elopement.  "  Do  you  think  they'll  try 
it  again?"  she  asked. 

"  No.  I  have  Marjorie's  promise  for  six  months, 
on  condition  that  I  will  help  her  all  I  can,  and  that 
her  parents  shall  never  know  of  last  night's  esca- 
pade. I  showed  her  how  unfair  to  Charrington 
this  thing  was — how  it  would  make  him  look  like 
a  sneak  to  her  family.  She'd  never  thought  of 
that,  and  it  turned  the  trick.  She  consented  to 
let  me  telegraph  to  him  at  Stamford,  and  to  go 
back  home  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
She's  to  manage  her  adoring  parents  according  to 
the  scheme  I  outlined.  But  you  should  hear  her 
rave  over  this  cousin  of  yours." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  125 

"That,"  said  Theodora  in  a  puzzled  voice,  "is 
the  oddest  part  of  the  whole  thing.  Ned's  a  per- 
fect dear — but  he's  just  a  boy.  He's  just  Ned. 
I  can't  possibly  picture  him  as  the  hero  of  a 
romance." 

Beeckman  laughed.  "The  cousinly  point  of 
view,"  he  cried.  "According  to  Marjorie,  he's  the 
loveliest  lover  that  a  girl  ever  had.  His  two  sole 
faults,  as  she  admits  them,  are  youth  and  poverty. 
As  she  sagely  observes,  'he'll  get  over  the  one,  and 
the  other  doesn't  matter.  I  have  money  enough 
for  both  of  us,  and  it  will  keep  us  comfortable  while 
he's  making  good.  What  else  is  money  for?' 
And  by  Jove,  I  think  she's  right,  at  that.  .  .  . 
Miss  Winthrop,  a  wonderful  thought  has  just 
struck  me!" 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  when  those  two  infants  marry,  you  and  I 
will  be  cousins." 

"Oh,"  cried  Theodora  in  affright,  "for  good- 
ness* sake  never  suggest  such  a  thing  to  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant.  She'd  send  me  off  at  a  moment's 
notice." 

Then  they  both  laughed,  and  felt  very  friendly 
and  intimate. 

It  came  to  pass  that  Theodora  saw  Beeckman 
every  morning  and  evening  of  his  stay.  He  al- 
ways ran  up  to  the  boudoir  after  dinner,  if  only  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  he  invariably  shared  her  morn- 


126  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

ing  walks.  It  was  all  very  foolish,  but  it  was  cer- 
tainly no  worse. 

And  then,  on  the  very  last  morning,  a  terrible 
thing  happened. 

Beeckman  had  just  been  telling  Theodora  that 
his  plans  for  returning  presently  for  a  more  quiet 
visit  had  all  been  upset  by  Miss  Burrill,  who  was 
leaving  at  once  for  Chicago  to  help  organize  some 
Red  Cross  work.  "She's  so  wonderful,"  he  said, 
"and  has  such  a  phenomenal  gift  at  organization, 
that  they  send  her  all  around.  I've  never  known 
anyone  like  her.  Her  private  pleasures  are  never 
permitted  to  interfere  with  her  work." 

"You  must  miss  her  when  she's  gone."  Theo- 
dora's voice  was  rather  low. 

"  Oh,  no  end.  But  I  have  to  get  used  to  it  these 
days.  The  rest  of  the  girls  seem  tame  and  boring 
in  comparison  with  Helen.  She's  always  full  of 
interesting  ideas,  and  I've  never  known  such  en- 
thusiasm. You  certainly  must  meet  her.  I'm 
dining  with  her  tonight,  and  I'm  going  to  tell  her 
all  about  you."  (Alas,  when  was  woman  ever 
comforted  by  a  man's  promise  to  tell  another 
woman  all  about  her?)  "I'm  only  sorry  that  her 
changed  plans  will  keep  me  from  seeing  you  again, 
before  you  come  to  New  York.  It  seemed  to  me 
we'd  have  such  a  cosy  little  time,  with  Bridge  each 
evening.  .  .  .  However,  it  won't  be  long  till 
you're  in  town." 

Theodora  walked  along,  looking  down  at  the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  127 

ground  and  feeling  more  disappointed  than  she 
would  have  cared  to  confess.  She  had  been  un- 
consciously counting  on  this  return  of  Beeckman's. 
And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  tragedy  overtook  them. 

Poilu,  who  had  never  done  such  a  thing  in  his 
life,  spied  a  mangy-looking  bull  pup  down  a  side 
street,  disliked  him  at  sight,  and  made  a  dart  at 
him.  The  pup  responded  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, and  soon  a  terrific  fight  was  in  progress. 
Turning,  snarling,  leaping,  rolling,  it  was  a  battle 
of  the  wildest  sort.  Theodora  was  almost  weeping. 
"Hold  Blanchette,"  she  shrieked,  and  darted  into 
the  thick  of  the  fray. 

But  she  felt  herself  thrust  aside.  Her  com- 
panion was  a  sportsman  of  no  mean  order,  and  he 
knew  a  thing  or  two  about  fights.  He  had  picked 
up  the  panting  Blanchette  and  now  turned  her 
over  to  Theodora.  "Stay  out  of  this,"  he  com- 
manded. "I'll  separate  them." 

He  did,  but  it  was  the  work  of  some  strenuous 
minutes.  Upon  examination,  Poilu  was  found  to 
have  escaped  with  some  flesh  wounds  which  ap- 
peared not  to  go  very  deep.  But  he  was  a  mass  of 
mud  and  blood  and  filth.  Theodora  felt  as  if  the 
end  of  the  world  had  come. 

"I'm  going  to  get  a  cab  and  send  you  home  with 
this  wretched  cur,"  said  Beeckman.  "I'd  like  to 
come  with  you,  but  I'd  better  not.  As  soon  as 
you  get  back,  turn  the  beast  over  to  one  of  the 
men;  then  call  my  aunt's  maid  and  tell  her  about 


128  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

it.  Go  to  your  room  and  stay  there.  Shall  I 
tell  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  the  news,  or  would  you  rather 
doit?" 

"Oh,  wouldn't  you  mind?"  she  cried  in  a  burst 
of  relief. 

"Mind?  Certainly  not.  Why  should  I  mind? 
I  only  want  to  do  what  will  be  best  for  you." 

"I'd  rather  die  than  tell  her,"  confessed  Theo- 
dora. 

"Very  well,  then.  That  settles  it.  The  only 
thing  is,  I  shall  have  to  say  that  I  was  with  you — 
and  that  might  be  visited  on  your  head.  How- 
ever, I'll  just  tell  her  that  I  was  walking  in  the 
village " 

"Mr.  Beeckman?" 

"What,  you  poor  child?" 

"You  honestly  don't  mind — I  mean  you  don't 
care  on  your  own  account  what  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
thinks?" 

"Care?  I  should  rather  think  not.  I  was 
thinking  only  of  protecting  you." 

"Then — please  don't  tell  any  fibs  on  my  account. 
Just  say  we  were  walking  together.  I'll  take  the 
consequences.  I'd  rather,  honestly.  I  couldn't 
be  comfortable  otherwise.  She  can't  do  worse  than 
dismiss  me.  And  no  matter  what  she  did,  I'd 
like  it  better  than  fibbing.  Anyhow,  I  haven't 
done  anything  wicked." 

"You  poor  little  thing!  Of  course  you  haven't. 
But  it  seems  such  a  sneak  on  my  part.  I'm  the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  129 

one  who's  responsible  for  the  whole  thing.  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do;  I'll  stay  over  and  see  the  thing 
through.  I'll  just  wire  New  York — 

"  No,  no.  Tell  her  the  mere  facts  and  go,  please. 
I'd  a  thousand  times  rather.  Thank  you  just  the 
same.  You're  awfully  kind."  And  she  gave  him 
her  hand,  biting  her  lips  to  keep  back  the  tears. 
To  be  dismissed  in  disgrace !  It  was  too  awful ! 

"The  poor  little  thing,"  thought  the  man,  as  he 
watched  the  cab  drive  away.  "She's  simply  a 
brick !  Why,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  didn't 
I  let  her  alone?  I  wish  I  could  take  this  thing  off 
her  shoulders.  Anyhow,  I'll  do  my  best  to  muzzle 
Aunt  Honora." 

Theodora  did  as  he  had  directed.  She  was  only 
too  glad  to  have  a  sane  plan  of  action  laid  down 
for  her.  Turning  Poilu  over  to  Louise  and  one  of 
the  footmen,  she  went  to  her  room  and  began  to 
pace  the  floor  in  a  tempest  of  vain  regret. 

What  a  fool  she  had  been !  What  had  she  gotten 
out  of  all  these  stolen  meetings  that  had  paid  her 
for  this?  Here  she,  Theodora  Winthrop,  the  girl 
who  had  always  felt  rather  sure  of  herself — who 
had  believed  if  one  were  truthful  and  honest  every- 
thing would  come  out  all  right — had  done  little 
but  make  a  series  of  wretched  mistakes  ever  since 
entering  this  new  home.  To  have  sent  that  awful 
telegram!  To  have  been  the  compliant  recipient 
of  a  regular  set  of  stolen  visits! — why,  a  servant 
wouldn't  have  acted  otherwise!  Her  employer 


130  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

would  naturally  think  her  an  ordinary  intriguing 
schemer.  It  would  be  pleasant,  wouldn't  it,  to 
sneak  home  discharged,  less  than  a  month  after 
starting  out? 

As  she  paced,  she  heard  motors  drive  up  to  the 
house,  and  then  away.  She  never  even  went  to  the 
window  to  watch  them.  Was  it  in  this  same  cen- 
tury that  she  had  seen  the  assembling  of  the  party 
which  was  now  dispersing? 

She  sent  away  her  luncheon  untasted.  Some 
two  hours  later  there  was  a  knock  at  her  door, 
and  her  summons  came. 

With  a  long  tremulous  sigh,  she  moved  to  obey 
it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"COME,"  cried  a  voice  in  answer  to  Theodora's 
knock,  and  the  girl  walked  in  to  face  her  doom. 

"Ah,  Miss  Winthrop !  Sit  there,  please. ' '  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant's  tones  were  icy,  her  eyes  were  hard, 
and  the  chair  she  indicated  placed  Theodora's 
tear-ravaged  face  in  the  most  uncompromising 
light.  It  was  a  new  position  for  the  chair,  which 
had  evidently  been  especially  set  for  the  trial. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  me  about  this  unfortunate 
affair?"  said  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 

In  a  toneless  voice,  Theodora  related  the  cir- 
cumstances. "You  know,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,"  she 
concluded,  "you  told  me  to  take  the  dogs  down  to 
the  village.  You  wanted  them  to  have  change  of 
scene." 

"Very  true.  But  there  never  before  seemed  to 
be  any  vicious  curs  around.  This  one  must  be 
shot,  of  course." 

"Oh,"  cried  Theodora,  "it  wasn't  his  fault! 
He  was  merely  defending  himself.  Poilu  began 
it.  He  attacked  the  strange  dog  in  cold  blood." 

"That  may  be,  but  it  fails  to  alter  the  case. 
Poilu  is  a  valuable  and  a  high-strung  dog;  the 


132  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

other  is  a  mere  cur.     He  must  be  shot.     Of  course, 
I  shall  pay  his  owner." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  were  giving  your  at- 
tention to  your  duties  when  this  thing  happened? " 
pursued  the  older  woman. 

(Now  it  was  coming !) 

"I  think  so,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  I  was  walking 
with  your  nephew  and  talking  to  him  but  I  was 
watching  the  dogs.  Poilu  ran  so  quickly  I  couldn't 
possibly  have  stopped  him.  No  one  could.  It 
all  happened  in  a  moment." 

"How  long  have  you  known  my  nephew,  Miss 
Winthrop?" 

"Since  the  first  evening  of  your  party." 

"How  did  you  meet  him?" 

"He  came  into  this  room  for  your  scarf.  He 
said  you  sent  him.  I  was  sitting  here,  in  accord- 
ance with  your  permission." 

"Did  he  stop  to  talk?" 

"A  little  while.  Then  after  he  had  taken  the 
scarf  down,  he  came  back  and  stayed  for  an  hour." 
The  girl  paused,  and  then  added:  "He  said  he'd 
come  back,  and  I  waited  for  him." 

"I  suppose  you  thought  that  my  nephew  was 
asked  here  entirely  on  your  account?" 

"No,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant."  (This  almost  with 
contempt.  The  older  woman  had  been  guilty 
of  the  first  false  move.) 

"Didn't  it  seem  strange  to  you  that  he  should 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  133 

be  making  engagements  with  you,  my  hired  com- 
panion, to  whom  he  had  never  even  been  intro- 
duced?" 

"Yes,  it  did.  But  I  was  where  I  had  been  told 
to  be,  and  Mr.  Beeckman  said  he  had  the  run  of 
the  house." 

"You  could  have  gone  to  your  room,  Miss 
Winthrop." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant." 

"May  I  ask  you  why  you  didn't?" 

"I  wanted  to  stay." 

"Humph!  And  was  that  the  only  time  you 
met?" 

"No.  I  saw  him  every  morning  and  every 
evening." 

"By  appointment?" 

' '  Never. ' '  Another  pause,  and  then : ' '  'But  after 
the  first  time,  I  thought  he'd  come,  and  I  hoped 
he  would." 

"How  did  he  know  your  habits?" 

' '  I  told  him  about  them  the  first  evening.  He 
merely  came  into  the  room  where  I  sat,  and  walked 
on  the  roads  where  I  walked.  It  seemed  as  though 
he  had  a  perfect  right  in  both  places,  and  I  certainly 
had." 

There  followed  the  longest  pause  of  all.  Theo- 
dora drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  It  was  over, 
and  she  was  still  alive!  In  fact,  after  the  begin- 
ning, it  had  been  easier  than  she  had  expected 
And  above  all,  there  was  the  blessed  certitude 


134  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

that  nothing  was  hidden,  nothing  hanging  over 
her  head  to  fall  upon  her  later.  Whatever  might 
be  in  store  for  her,  it  would  happen  soon  and  be 
over. 

"I  have  had  the  veterinary,"  said  Mrs.  Stuy- 
vesant  at  length.  "I  trust  you  will  be  glad  to 
hear  that  Poilu  has  not  suffered  too  severely, 
except  for  the  nervous  shock,  and  that  he  will 
probably  soon  be  well  again." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  cried  Theodora. 

"As  to  my  nephew, "  continued  the  older  woman, 
picking  up  a  jewelled  fan  and  holding  it  to  her 
face  (Theodora  knew  that  fan;  it  was  a  Spanish 
one,  and  it  had  eye-slits),  "as  to  my  nephew,  he 
is  the  most  amusing  person  I  have  ever  known; 
a  trifle  selfish,  perhaps,  when  it  comes  to  a  question 
of  his  own  entertainment.  Most  men  are.  They 
expect  a  woman  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  herself. 
.  .  .  As  it  happened,  the  girl  who  was  asked  here 
especially  on  Mr.  Beeckman's  account — who  is 
always  asked  everywhere  especially  on  his  account 
— was  unable  at  the  last  moment  to  come.  He 
therefore  took  his  temporary  amusement  where  he 
found  it  waiting  for  him,  as  would  any  man  of  the 
world.  It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Miss  Winthrop, 
to  be  willing  to  furnish  it." 

It  stung.  There  wasn't  any  question  about 
that.  Theodora's  face  flamed  scarlet.  Never- 
theless, she  was  game.  Many  mistakes  might 
she  make,  but  never  one  of  cowardliness  nor  yet 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  135 

of  too  great  meekness.  She  looked  her  employer 
straight  in  the  eye.  "I'm  glad,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant," 
she  said  levelly,  "if  I  was  able  to  add  to  the  suc- 
cess of  your  party — even  by  amusing  a  bored 
guest." 

The  older  woman  stared  incredulously  for  a 
moment,  then  she  picked  up  the  Spanish  fan 
again.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  cool  and 
non-committal.  "That  is  all,  I  think,  Miss  Win- 
throp,"  she  said.  "You  may  go.  Your  dinner 
will  be  served  in  your  room,  as  Louise  is  going  to 
put  me  to  bed  at  once.  I  have  had  a  wearing 
day." 

As  the  girl  walked  out,  the  eyes  of  her  employer 
followed  her  with  a  strange  expression.  "Not 
exactly  a  spineless  sycophant,"  she  said  to  herself 
grimly.  "But  she  must  be  broken." 

Theodora  went  to  her  room,  quite  unsure  of 
her  position.  She  couldn't  decide  whether  she 
was  to  be  dismissed  or  not.  Nevertheless,  there 
was  a  singular  feeling  of  lightness  in  the  region  of 
her  heart,  its  only  bar  being  that  rankling  thought 
about  Alan  Beeckman  and  his  Helen.  Theodora 
couldn't  help  wondering  if  she  had  indeed  made 
herself  cheap — if  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
butchered  in  order  to  furnish  a  Roman  holiday. 
Was  the  man  laughing  in  his  sleeve?  It  didn't 
seem  like  him,  yet  she  knew  almost  nothing  of 
men  and  their  ways.  Anyhow,  she  wasn't  going 


136  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

to  worry  over  it  any  more  than  she  could  help. 
She  went  early  to  bed,  and  was  fortunately  soon 
asleep. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  there  came  a  quick 
knock,  followed  by  a  frightened  voice.  "Miss 
Winthrop,  please,"  said  Louise's  tense  tones,  "can 
you  come  at  once?  Madame  is  very  ill." 

Theodora  hurried  into  a  dressing-gown  and  flew. 
She  sent  servants  to  telephone  for  the  doctor  and 
a  nurse.  Then  she  applied  the  crisis  remedies 
and  fell  to  chafing  the  patient's  hands  and  feet. 
Minutes  seemed  hours.  The  doctor  arrived  in 
what  was  really  an  incredibly  short  time,  but  it 
was  none  too  soon.  Indeed,  for  a  couple  of  hours 
no  one  thought  it  would  prove  to  be  soon  enough. 
The  spark  of  life  flickered  so  low  as  to  be  nearly 
extinguished.  It  was  pale  dawn  before  the  danger 
was  finally  past.  A  nurse  in  uniform  had  arrived 
on  the  scene,  and  Theodora  was  sent  off  to  bed. 
The  doctor  assured  her  that  she  had  been  wonder- 
ful, and  that  it  was  thanks  to  her  quick  and  efficient 
work  that  tragedy  had  been  averted. 

As  she  walked  through  the  halls,  so  weird  in 
that  first  cold  light  of  coming  day,  she  shivered  to 
think  how  recently  they  had  echoed  with  laughter 
and  gay  voices.  The  girl  had  fought  her  first 
battle  with  that  dread  white  messenger  who 
sooner  or  later  gathers  every  human  soul  to  his 
harvest,  and  she  was  unspeakably  shaken.  With 
throbbing  conscience,  she  wondered  how  greatly 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  137 

the  affair  of  the  dog-fight  might  have  contributed 
to  this  seizure. 

"Oh,"  she  thought,  "after  this,  I'm  going  to 
stick  to  my  duties  without  bothering  about  any- 
thing else.  If  I  stay  here,  I  hope  I  shall  never 
forget  this  night.  I  hope  I  shall  never  again  be 
as  foolish  as  I've  just  been!" 

As  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  grew  better,  it  became 
apparent  that  Theodora  was  still  regarded  as  a 
fixture  in  the  household.  For  some  three  weeks 
her  life  at  Fair  Acres  was  as  quiet  and  uneventful 
as  ever  it  had  been  in  Waverly.  Then  at  the  end 
of  that  time,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  well  enough, 
and  the  season  was  late  enough,  to  warrant  the 
move  to  New  York.  Theodora  looked  forward 
to  this  with  the  greatest  interest. 

It  is  doubtful  if  any  bred-and-born  New  Yorker 
can  appreciate  the  wonderful  city  as  can  one  to 
whom  it  comes  as  a  revelation.  He  can  love  it 
as  greatly,  but  he  must  inevitably  take  it  more 
for  granted — just  as  a  beauty  takes  for  granted 
those  advantages  whose  possession  would  drive 
her  plainer  sister  wild  with  joy.  New  York 
seemed  to  Theodora  Winthrop  the  pinnacle  of 
the  mountain  of  desire,  the  place  where  Oppor- 
tunity made  her  dwelling,  the  panacea  for  ennui 
and  ignorance  and  despair.  In  sooth,  measured 
against  Waverly,  it  might  well  be  all  these  things 
— to  Youth  and  Hope,  at  least.  Theodora  found 


138  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

herself  installed  in  another  beautiful  home;  it 
was  modelled  on  the  same  general  plan  as  Fair 
Acres,  though  it  was  not  so  huge.  The  library, 
however,  was  even  more  impressive,  and  it  was 
the  room  that  the  girl  came  to  love  best. 

But  the  streets  and  their  wayfarers!  They 
were  a  never-failing  joy  and  delight.  Even  when 
Theodora  exercised  the  poodles  in  the  early  morn- 
ing along  a  Fifth  Avenue  shunned  by  all  but  hurry- 
ing workers  and  nursemaids  with  their  charges — 
even  at  those  unholy  hours  when  delicate  world- 
lings were  still  abed,  when  lights  were  crude  and 
winds  were  raw,  when  shops  were  dull  and  cross- 
ings could  be  made  with  the  maximum  of  ease  and 
the  minimum  of  danger — Theodora  thrilled  to 
the  lure  of  the  spell.  How  much  more,  then, 
when  she  drove  with  her  employer  in  the  sparkling 
afternoons,  or  (better  still)  enjoyed  her  weekly 
half -holidays  alone.  She  contented  herself  at 
first,  on  these  free  afternoons,  with  mere  walks 
on  the  great  thoroughfares  and  through  the  biggest 
of  the  shops.  Drawn  occasionally  by  some  es- 
pecially tempting  hat  or  gown  that  was  placed  on 
show,  she  made  an  errand  to  ask  its  price.  The 
information  elicited  invariably  staggered  her  and 
added  to  her  growing  certitude  that  money  was 
the  answer  to  most  of  life's  questions.  Money 
meant  ease  and  luxury  and  usefulness;  it  meant 
a  wide  horizon  and  freedom  from  nagging  worries; 
it  meant  importance  and  opportunity.  Of  course 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  139 

one  wouldn't  barter  health,  or  decency,  or  instincts 
in  return  for  it;  but  next  to  those  three  essentials, 
it  loomed  gigantically  important.  Almost  every- 
thing was  purchasable — power  was  certainly  pur- 
chasable; so,  too,  was  beauty,  to  an  adequate 
degree;  and  so,  seemingly,  was  love  itself.  Ah, 
yes,  it  was  certainly  money  that  counted! 

Before  long,  Theodora  learned  to  extend  her 
pleasures.  She  found  the  museums  and  libraries 
and  theatres.  Sitting  alone  in  the  highest  gallery, 
watching  the  matinee  performance  of  a  clever 
piece,  she  was  probably  the  happiest  person  in 
the  audience.  The  keen  edge  had  never  been 
worn  by  habit  from  her  power  of  enjoyment. 

The  first  Sunday  afternoon  in  town  was  a  red- 
letter  occasion.  Looking  regally  handsome,  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  held  court  while  Theodora  sat  happily 
in  her  shadow,  pouring  tea  for  her  guests  and 
receiving  gratefully  the  crumbs  of  conversation 
that  fell  to  her  share.  Everyone  had  come  back 
to  town  early  on  account  of  war  activities,  and 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  return  was  always  accorded  a 
celebration. 

Alan  Beeckman  was  not  among  the  visitors. 
Half-eagerly,  half-nervously,  Theodora  watched 
for  him ;  but  he  did  not  come.  Neither  did  Miss 
Burrill.  There  did  come,  however,  a  certain  Mrs. 
Beeckman  from  whom  the  girl  could  hardly  take 
her  eyes — so  fascinating  was  she,  so  clever  and 
animated,  so  sure  of  herself  and  her  audience. 


140  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

They  called  her  Blanche  and,  next  to  her  hostess, 
she  held  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

"How's  suffrage,  Blanche?"  asked  someone. 

"Suffrage  is  all  right!"  responded  the  vivacious 
Blanche,  with  a  quick  little  nod  of  emphasis. 
"It's  coming,  and  it's  coming  soon.  Then  all 
you  fossils  will  be  making  appointments  with  me, 
in  order  to  learn  how  to  vote  properly." 

This  unloosed  an  avalanche.  Theodora  listened 
to  some  red-hot  arguments,  for  suffrage  and 
against  it.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  as  arrogantly 
against  it  as  was  Blanche  for  it.  The  position 
of  "anti"  Theodora  could  well  understand — they 
were  all  antis  at  home — but  it  surprised  her  no 
little  to  find  fashionable  women  on  the  side  of 
equal  suffrage.  She  had  supposed  that  all  sup- 
porters of  the  movement  were  short-haired  freaks. 

"Blanche  will  soon  be  championing  Prohibi- 
tion," laughed  one  of  the  men. 

"Pas  si  bete,  cheri,"  replied  Blanche,  with  a 
wry  face,  and  again  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  went  off  at 
half-cock. 

"Of  course,"  said  one  woman  thoughtfully, 
"the  saloons  must  be  a  terrible  problem." 

"Then  weed  them  out.  It  isn't  necessary  to 
have  Prohibition  to  do  that." 

"But  they'll  say  that  it's  a  question  of  privilege 
— that  the  rich  man  can  have  his  clubs  and  the 
poor  man  can't." 

"Give  them  to  him,"  cried  Blanche.     "Estab- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  141 

lish  cheerful  rooms,  with  newspapers  and  pool- 
tables  and  sandwiches  and  hot  chocolate — and 
even  beer,  in  proper  quantities.  But  don't  turn 
the^  world  upside  down  in  a  futile  attempt  to 
protect  weakness.  Temptation  can't  be  destroyed 
— people  have  to  learn  to  resist  it.  If  they  can't 
they'll  go  down.  The  weak  man  will  go  down — 
he's  bound  to;  if  not  in  one  way,  then  in  another. 
Because  he's  weak  about  whiskey,  they  say  it 
must  be  taken  out  of  the  world.  Very  well! 
Suppose  he's  weak  about  money;  would  they 
throw  it  all  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  to  keep  him 
from  stealing?  Suppose  he's  weak  about  women; 
must  we  all  be  killed  off,  or  locked  up,  for  his 
salvation?" 

Everyone  laughed  and  applauded.  "Bravo, 
Blanche,"  they  cried. 

"I  wish  you  were  as  sensible  on  the  subject  of 
suffrage,"  said  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 

"Aunt  Honora,  I'm  going  to  convert  you.  I 
shall  take  you  to  our  next  meeting." 

"Indeed  you  will  not,  my  dear.  I  haven't 
come  to  that  yet." 

Mrs.  Beeckman,  looking  around,  caught  Theo- 
dora's tense  gaze.  "Then  I'll  take  Miss  Win- 
throp,"  she  cried,  "if  she'll  come.  Will  you,  Miss 
Winthrop?" 

Theodora  glanced  at  her  employer.  ' '  Thank  you, 
Mrs.  Beeckman,"  she  answered  a  little  doubtfully. 

"Would  you  like  to?" 


142  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Yes,  indeed.     But  unless  it  were  Wednesday 

i         »» 

"It's  Tuesday  afternoon.  You  can  spare  Miss 
Winthrop  then,  can't  you,  Aunt  Honora?" 

"I  can  spare  her — certainly.  But  I  warn  you 
not  to  make  a  convert  of  her.  That  would  be 
more  than  I  could  bear." 

"Is  she  an  anti?" 

"Certainly  she  is." 

"Are  you,  Miss  Winthrop?"  persisted  the  wilful 
Blanche. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Beeckman,  I  think  so." 

"Then  there'll  be  all  the  more  glory  in  convert- 
ing you,"  cried  Blanche  cheerfully.  "I'll  do  my 
best,  Aunt  Honora.  Tuesday  afternoon,  then, 
Miss  Winthrop,  at  a  quarter  of  three,  sharp.  I'll 
stop  for  you  here." 

When  Tuesday  afternoon  arrived,  Theodora 
entered  Mrs.  Beeckman's  limousine  with  a  distinct 
assurance  of  her  pleasure  in  being  with  her  brilliant 
hostess,  but  with  considerable  doubt  as  to  the 
balance  of  the  programme. 

"Are  you  a  screaming  anti?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Beeckman. 

"I  fear  I  am,"  admitted  the  girl. 

"And  have  you  ever  heard  any  really  good 
arguments  or  debates  on  the  subject?" 

"Never." 

"All  your  friends  are  antis,  I  suppose,  and  all 
your  reading  has  been  on  that  side?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  143 

"Yes,  that  is  true." 

"I  thought  so.  That  is  the  general  idea  of 
'reading  up'  on  any  subject — reading  only  what 
concurs  with  one's  preconceived  opinions.  Now, 
I  approached  this  thing  with  an  absolutely  un- 
biassed mind,  and  I  studied  it  thoroughly  before 
coming  to  a  decision.  I'm  convinced  that  it  is 
right,  fair,  and  necessary  that  women  shall  vote. 
All  that  I  ask  of  you  this  afternoon  is  to  listen  to 
our  arguments  without  prejudice." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  meeting  place,  Mrs. 
Beeckman  was  nearly  devoured  by  her  admirers 
in  the  waiting  crowd.  Even  as  early  in  the  pro- 
gramme as  this,  the  temperamental  differences  in 
the  sexes  were  made  apparent.  What  crowd  of 
men,  thought  Theodora,  would  so  fall  over  them- 
selves to  make  an  impression  on  a  social  lion? 

Not  all  the  women  here  were  Beeckman  follow- 
ers, however.  The  bulk  of  them  were,  but  there 
were  others  who  stood  aloof  and  looked  supercil- 
ious— for  in  most  camps  there  are  two  factions. 
And  here  again,  a  sex  difference  showed.  This 
time  it  was  possibly  in  the  women's  favour.  They 
erred  on  the  side  of  honesty.  They  were  over- 
eager  to  flaunt  their  personal  likes  and  dislikes, 
to  pet  and  to  scathe.  Men — trained  diplomatists 
— would  have  been  over-eager  to  conceal  their 
real  feelings. 

It  was  a  motley  crowd  that  had  gathered.  The 
top  notch  of  fashion  hobnobbed  with  skimpy- 


144  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

skirted,  short-haired,  bespectacled,  dowdy  women 
whom  Theodora  considered  "typical."  Leaving 
her  guest  in  a  front-row  seat,  Mrs.  Beeckman  took 
her  place  on  the  platform !  and  called  the  meeting 
to  order. 

Theodora  was  immediately  impressed  with  the 
knowledge  of  law — parliamentary,  municipal,  fed- 
eral, national — that  these  women  appeared  to 
possess.  To  that,  she  gave  full  and  admiring 
credit.  But  she  heard  not  a  single  argument 
which  she  considered  conclusive,  nor  one  which 
she  herself  could  not  have  refuted.  It  all  seemed 
to  her  to  be  theory,  a  determination  to  win  out, 
and  pique  at  the  fact  that  there  was  anything 
from  which  a  woman  should  be  excluded  against 
her  will. 

A  certain  speaker  was  introduced  as  Mrs.  Fel- 
ton.  "Mrs.  Felton,"  said  Mrs.  Beeckman  gra- 
ciously, "is  with  us  today  for  the  first  time.  This 
is  her  maiden  speech  for  us,  but  her  efforts  for 
the  cause  have  been  untiring.  She  has  formed  in 
her  own  home  village  a  Suffrage  Club  of  which  she 
is  President,  and  the  membership  has  increased 
from  ten  to  thirty-four  in  less  than  a  year." 

"Eight  months,"  amended  Mrs.  Felton  modestly 
and  made  her  bow. 

She  was  a  thin  pale  woman  who  looked  as  if 
she  needed  a  tonic  and  good  food.  Her  face  was 
clever  and  her  manner  direct  and  free  from  self- 
consciousness — albeit  marred  by  impatience.  She 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  145 

gave  the  impression  of  having  been  a  whining, 
fretful,  delicate,  clever  child. 

She  spoke  well,  as  far  as  enunciation  and  choice 
and  wealth  of  vocabulary  were  concerned;  but 
to  Theodora,  at  least,  her  superlative  statements 
were  simply  astounding.  Give  women  the  vote, 
and  there  would  never  again  be  a  war.  Mothers 
didn't  rear  their  sons  just  to  see  them  shot.  (' '  Do 
fathers?"  thought  Theodora.)  Let  women  vote, 
and  there  would  be  no  more  drunkenness,  no 
saloons,  no  unhappy  homes.  Gambling  halls 
would  disappear — did  anyone  think  they  were 
run  for  the  benefit  of  women?  Sexual  vice  would 
cease  to  exist,  since  women  were  now  but  its 
powerless  and  unwilling  prey.  Child  labour  would 
no  longer  be  permitted.  Graft  would  die — it  being 
an  established  fact  that  women  have  a  higher 
sense  of  honour  than  men. 

After  all  these  marvellous  statements,  which 
anyone  might  make  but  no  one  could  prove,  and 
which  there  was  no  present  opportunity  to  ques- 
tion or  deny,  Mrs.  Felton  broke  into  an  impas- 
sioned plea  for  women  police  on  the  streets  of 
New  York.  Her  idea  was  that  the  men  on  the 
present  force  took  fiendish  delight  in  misdirecting 
inquiring  females — sending  them  to  dives  which 
paid  a  rake-off  for  such  courtesies.  It  seemed 
that  no  side  of  the  case  had  been  left  unconsidered. 

There  was  one  member  of  the  audience  (she 
must  have  been  a  jealous  cat)  who  was  dubious 


146  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

as  to  woman's  physical  power  to  assume  the 
duties  of  a  policeman.  "Suppose  there  were  a 
fight,"  she  suggested. 

"Oh,"  answered  Mrs.  Felton  easily,  "of  course 
there  must  always  be  a  male  policeman  behind 
each  female  one,  so  that  she  can  call  him  if  neces- 
sary." 

So  that  was  the  idea!  The  woman  was  to  run 
the  job,  and  the  man  was  merely  to  do  it.  "At 
least,"  thought  Theodora,  "when  equal  suffrage 
comes,  they  won't  need  police.  The  world  will 
be  a  paradise  then." 

After  the  meeting,  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
informal  talking,  as  well  as  of  introducing.  Theo- 
dora could  see  that  she,  herself,  acquired  a  distinct 
cachet  through  being  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Beeckman. 
Mrs.  Felton  came  in  for  much  praise  and  many 
congratulations. 

"We'll  go  and  have  some  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Beeck- 
man as  she  and  Theodora  got  into  the  car.  "It's 
all  right.  I  told  Aunt  Honora."  And  thus  it 
was  that  the  girl  had  her  first  peep  at  a  fashionable 
hotel  during  tea  hour. 

Mrs.  Beeckman  had  a  cocktail  before  her  tea, 
rum  in  it,  and  innumerable  cigarettes  after  it. 
Theodora  couldn't  help  thinking  that  suffrage 
would  hit  her  rather  hard,  if  Mrs.  Felton's  pro- 
phecies proved  true. 

They  discussed  the  speeches  and  the  Cause. 
Mrs.  Beeckman,  though  delighted  with  Theodora's 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  147 

keen  pleasure  in  discussion,  was  disappointed  to 
find  her  so  little  converted.  ' '  Still , "  she  admitted, 
"it  often  takes  quite  a  while.  I'm  sure  you  will 
be  one  of  us  eventually.  You  have  too  good  a 
mind  to  continue  as  an  anti." 

"There's  Mrs.  Stuyvesant—  "  began  Theodora. 

' '  Oh  yes.  But  she  belongs  to  a  past  generation, ' ' 
said  that  lady's  niece  easily. 

A  number  of  attractive-looking  people — men 
and  women — stopped  at  their  table  for  a  word  or 
a  chat.  Theodora  reflected  with  honesty  that 
she  was  enjoying  the  tea  much  more  than  she  had 
enjoyed  the  meeting  which  had  preceded  it.  "I'm 
about  on  a  mental  level  with  Elise,"  she  thought 
caustically. 

Upon  her  return  home,  she  was  told  that  her 
dinner  would  be  served  upstairs,  as  Mrs.  Stuy- 
vesant had  unexpected  guests.  Getting  into  a 
dressing-gown,  Theodora  settled  herself  for  a  long 
cosy  reverie. 

She  was  never  weary  of  comparing  life  in  New 
York  and  at  Waver ly.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
chief  difference  lay  in  personal  independence. 
Back  in  Waverly,  everyone  watched  everyone 
else.  The  Misses  Duncan  were  the  moons  and 
all  others  were  their  satellites.  The  moons  ruled 
and  guided  the  satellites;  the  satellites  revolved 
around  their  moons — at  the  same  time,  watching 
each  other  ceaselessly. 

Here  in  New  York,  independence  was  the  pas- 


148  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

sionate  keynote.  Personal  taste  was  a  law.  In- 
terference and  advice  were  not  brooked.  Even 
the  servants  were  aggressive  at  bottom;  a  certain 
assumed  servility  was  one  of  their  assets,  but  it 
was  far  from  being  genuine.  As  to  their  employ- 
ers, those  lordlings  simply  took  it  for  granted  that 
the  world  was  created  to  be  their  oyster.  There 
was  no  other  set — that  is,  no  other  worth  regard- 
ing. One  couldn't  say  that  they  sneered  at  the 
rest  of  the  world;  they  simply  didn't  remember 
its  existence.  Waverly  openly  deprecated,  and 
secretly  envied,  New  York;  New  York  lived 
blissfully  unconscious  that  Waverly  was. 

Imagine  the  Meta  type  in  New  York !  Imagine 
meek  and  willing  drudges  devoting  themselves 
voluntarily  to  lives  of  stern  unlovely  duty,  with 
never  a  thought  of  personal  pleasure!  Imagine 
anyone  giving  up  a  New  York  evening  to  the 
playing  of  ballads — one  of  Waverly 's  chief  pas- 
times. Imagine  any  New  Yorker  patiently  hiber- 
nating through  one  dreary  lonely  winter  after 
another,  his  sole  consolation  being  the  thought 
that  it  would  be  over,  after  a  while ! 

A  tap  at  the  door,  and  a  maid  entered  with  a 
letter  and  a  dinner- tray.  Theodora  quickly  seized 
the  former.  She  wrote  to  her  mother  two  and 
three  times  every  week,  and  even  amid  the  whirl 
of  her  new  life,  she  eagerly  awaited  the  replies  to 
her  letters.  It  was  one  of  her  great  crosses  that 
Mrs.  Winthrop  was  still  at  Waverly,  tyrannized 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  149 

over  by  Aunt  Augusta,  irritated  by  Elise,  deserted 
by  her  own  daughter.  Oh,  for  money — for  piles 
and  piles  of  money! 

But  the  letter  she  opened  drove  even  the  thought 
of  money  from  Theodora's  head.  Elise  was  to 
be  married  quietly  and  immediately.  Meta  was 
wretched,  and  seemed  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous 
breakdown.  The  doctor  had  ordered  a  change, 
and  the  Misses  Duncan  had  been  kind  enough  to 
invite  her  to  spend  a  fortnight  with  them  in  the 
city.  With  the  new  toilet  that  she  would  have 
for  the  wedding,  eked  out  by  some  of  her  sister's 
left-overs,  she  would  be  enabled  to  go — though 
how  the  Waverly  household  would  survive  her 
absence  remained  to  be  seen. 

Theodora  crushed  the  letter  into  a  tight  little 
ball.  Poor,  poor  Meta!  Selfish,  miserable,  feline 
Elise!  With  the  impatience  of  her  years,  Theo- 
dora always  wanted  justice  to  be  both  immediate 
and  adequate,  whereas,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is 
rarely  the  one  and  inevitably  the  other. 

The  dinner  on  the  tray  was  particularly  dainty, 
but  it  was  quite  ruined  by  the  irritating  news. 
Theodora  was  still  turning  this  over  in  her 
mind,  when  there  came  another  rap  at  the  door. 
Would  Miss  Winthrop  please  hurry  downstairs? 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  wanted  her  in  the  library  for 
Bridge. 

The  summons  was  as  unwelcome  as  it  was  un- 
expected. Theodora  had  never  touched  a  card 


150  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

since  leaving  Waverly.  Even  there,  she  didn't 
play  often.  Probably  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  and  her 
guests  were  "sharks."  Beside  which,  here  was 
Theodora  caught  in  a  dressing-gown  with  her 
hair  braided  down  her  back. 

"Say  that  I  will  be  down  immediately,"  she 
cried,  and  began  to  dash  around,  making  a  hurried 
toilet.  It  goes  without  saying  that  her  hair  was 
refractory,  that  her  buttons  wouldn't  button,  and 
her  hooks  wouldn't  hook,  and  that  she  finally 
entered  the  library  feeling  distinctly  disgruntled. 
Then,  all  at  once,  her  heart  flew  to  her  mouth  and 
she  wished  she'd  been  given  time  to  dress  properly, 
for  the  man  who  rose  to  his  feet  at  her  entrance 
was  none  other  than  Alan  Beeckman.  What  a 
trickster  is  Fate!  On  no  other  night  in  the  past 
weeks  could  Theodora  have  been  caught  so  un- 
ready. Her  annoyance  took  the  form  of  stiffness, 
especially  when  she  became  aware  how  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  was  watching  her.  She  remembered 
uneasily  how  this  man  before  her  had  "amused" 
himself  at  Fair  Acres  at  her  expense,  and  how 
sarcastic  his  aunt  had  waxed  on  the  subject.  She 
reflected  how  untidy  she  must  be  looking,  and 
how  inadequate  her  game  of  Bridge  must  soon 
prove — in  fact,  how  entirely  at  a  disadvantage 
they  all  had  her!  She  knew  intuitively  that  the 
slender  creature  in  the  deep  chair  must  be ' '  Helen, " 
and  she  reminded  herself  that  she  had  always 
disliked  paragons.  So  she  got  even  by  making 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  151 

her  manner  as  unattractive  as  she  imagined  every- 
thing else  to  be. 

Little  could  she  guess  how  skilfully  Beeckman 
had  engineered  this  meeting,  how  he  had  played 
upon  his  aunt's  weakness  for  Bridge — leading  the 
conversation  to  the  game,  and  lamenting  that 
there  was  not  a  possible  fourth  for  tonight.  It 
was  a  little  plot  between  him  and  Helen,  made 
in  the  interest  of  Theodora.  Helen,  who  was 
always  an  angel,  was  to  meet  this  new  companion 
and  to  be  especially  nice  to  her. 

If  the  man  expected  any  personal  pleasure  out 
of  the  arrangement,  he  was  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. Theodora  was  cold  and  detached,  and 
never  once  met  his  eyes  directly.  Helen,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  sweet  and  winning  to  the  last 
degree.  She  was  tall  and  fair  and  delicate-looking, 
with  soft  ash-blond  hair  and  big  dark  eyes.  Her 
skin  was  tinted  like  a  sea-shell,  and  her  manner 
was  charming  and  gracious.  Yet  there  lay  about 
her  a  suggestion  of  sadness,  a  soft  appeal  that  had 
the  effect  of  far-away  music.  She  was  like  moon- 
light— sweet  and  lovely,  but  vaguely  sad.  She 
called  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  "Tante,"  and  her  rela- 
tionship with  Alan  was  conspicuously  intimate. 
He  turned  to  her  and  waited  on  her  and  appealed 
to  her,  and  she  received  it  all  in  a  way  that  plainly 
showed  how  used  to  it  she  was.  Once,  Theodora 
distinctly  heard  her  call  him  "dear,"  and  the 
sound  of  the  word  was  a  lash  to  her  own  pride. 


152  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  right;  men  were  selfish 
creatures  and  the  girl  who  held  herself  lightly  was 
a  fool. 

Helen  was  not  as  young  as  Theodora  had  ex- 
pected. She  looked  twenty-six  or  twenty-eight 
—as  old  as  Alan  himself.  But  that  might  be 
because  of  her  seriousness. 

As  to  the  game,  it  went  much  better  than 
Theodora  had  dared  hope.  Although  she  had 
played  far  less  than  any  of  the  others,  she  had 
played  under  the  sternest  and  least  lenient  of 
teachers.  Aunt  Augusta  was  a  task-mistress  of 
no  mean  order,  and  for  that  fact  her  niece  was 
now  unexpectedly  thankful.  Theodora's  own 
head,  moreover,  was  of  the  sort  that  turns  any 
mathematical  study  into  a  pleasure;  so  she  was 
well  equipped,  in  spite  of  her  youth  and  her  lack 
of  steady  practice. 

There  was  one  hand  which  she  was  not  likely 
soon  to  forget.  For  that  particular  rubber,  she 
and  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  were  partners.  Theodora, 
in  accordance  with  Aunt  Augusta's  teachings, 
held  up  the  ace  of  clubs  rather  than  clear  the 
adversaries'  suit,  with  the  result  that  her  ace  never 
made,  and  that  she  "took  it  home  to  bed."  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  considered  the  hand  murdered. 

"Of  course  I  realize,  Miss  Winthrop,"  she  said, 
"that  you  are  not  a  practiced  player.  But  re- 
member this  lesson,  I  pray.  Thanks  to  your 
waste  of  that  ace,  we  have  lost  the  rubber." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  153 

"Oh,  Aunt  Honora,"  cried  her  nephew,  "Miss 
Winthrop  was  absolutely  right." 

"Yes,  Tante,"  smiled  Miss  Burrill. 

"Right  to  waste  her  ace?     It  never  took." 

"Nevertheless,  she  saved  three  tricks  by  hold- 
ing it  up.  If  she  had  cleared  my  clubs,  I  should 
have  scored  small  slam." 

"But  my  dear  Alan,  we  should  certainly  have 
made  our  ace." 

"Yes,  and  cleared  that  long  weak  suit  in  Dum- 
my. I  should  have  entered  Dummy  by  the 
king  of  diamonds,  and  have  discarded  every  loser 
in  my  own  hand  on  those  long  clubs.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  see?" 

"I  certainly  do  not.     You  are  quite  wrong." 

"Let's  lay  out  the  hand  and  play  it  your  way," 
suggested  Helen  smilingly.  And  to  Theodora's 
astonishment,  she  picked  up  the  mass  of  cards  and 
proceeded  to  remake  the  hand  correctly,  down 
to  the  smallest  spots.  The  result  of  the  replay 
proved  Alan's  claim.  He  took  every  trick  but 
one — that  ace  of  clubs. 

It  was  an  unpleasant  pill  for  his  aunt,  but  she 
swallowed  it.  "I  shall  never  cease  to  give  thanks 
for  the  rising  generation,"  she  said  dryly.  "But 
for  them,  how  should  we  ever  be  educated?" 
And  everyone  laughed. 

At  the  end  of  the  game,  Beeckman  tried  hard 
to  get  a  word  with  Theodora;  he  was  really  anx- 
ious to  know  how  she  had  corr.e  out  in  that  affair 


154  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

of  the  dog-fight.  Helen,  noting  his  efforts,  abetted 
them.  But  he  was  foiled  by  his  aunt,  and  by 
Theodora  herself.  She  said  good-night,  and  went 
upstairs. 

She  saw  him  again  the  following  Sunday  after- 
noon, but  under  circumstances  still  more  adverse. 
The  room  was  full  when  he  came.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gary  (the  parents  of  Ned's  lovely  Marjorie),  had 
been  the  first  arrivals.  They  were  consumed 
with  concern  over  their  darling's  health;  Theo- 
dora was  forced  to  sit  with  lowered  eyes  and  listen 
to  much  uncomplimentary  talk  about  "that  un- 
fortunate affair, "  and  (from  Mrs.  Stuyvesant, 
who  had  never  met  the  would-be  lover),  many 
diatribes  as  to  his  impertinence.  All  the  remarks 
were  veiled,  so  that  Theodora,  had  she  not  already 
possessed  the  key,  would  never  have  understood 
them. 

"Keep  firm,"  was  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  grim  ad- 
vice to  her  niece  and  nephew.  "It  won't  last. 
Bring  her  down  to  Palm  Beach  this  winter,  and 
I'll  warrant  the  cure." 

The  worried  parents  sighed;  they  didn't  feel 
so  sure.  In  fact,  so  well  had  they  been  managed 
by  their  astute  child,  they  were  on  the  point  of 
yielding  in  despair.  However,  they  would  never 
have  admitted  this  to  their  autocratic  old  hostess. 

The  arrival  of  other  guests  put  an  end  to  the 
family  council.  Dr.  Homans  appeared — he  was 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  New  York  physician — and  then 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  155 

a  dozen  others  in  quick  succession.  Finally  the 
butler  announced  "Mr.  Beeckman,"  and  Theodora 
looked  hastily  down  at  her  cups. 

She  might  have  saved  herself  the  trouble.  The 
man  who  soon  sought  her  side  to  beg  for  some  tea 
was  not  Alan  Beeckman.  For  one  thing,  he  was 
considerably  older;  but  in  spite  of  that  fact  and 
of  a  look  of  dissipation  in  his  very  experienced 
eyes,  he  was  extremely  attractive.  Liking  Theo- 
dora's appearance,  he  established  himself  by  her 
side  at  once.  Her  table  was  quite  removed  from 
the  circle  around  Mrs.  Stuyvesant — much  farther 
back  in  the  room. 

The  newcomer  proved  to  be  Mr.  Van  Rensselaer 
Beeckman,  and  he,  too,  addressed  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
as  "Aunt  Honora."  This  afternoon,  however, 
he  didn't  spend  much  time  addressing  her — pre- 
ferring to  devote  his  efforts  to  Theodora,  with 
whom  he  conversed  in  tones  which  were  carefully 
lowered.  Lowered  tones  were  his  habit  with 
women. 

"I  wonder  if  it  was  your  wife  who  took  me  to 
my  first  suffrage  meeting,"  said  Theodora  after 
some  time.  "I  met  her  here  last  Sunday." 

"Then  you're  luckier  than  I  am,"  smiled  the 
man.  "I  haven't  met  her  for  three  years — in 
fact,  not  since  she  divorced  me." 

At  Theodora's  heightened  colour  and  look  of  dis- 
tress, he  laughed  appreciatively.  "Don't  worry, 
Miss  Winthrop,"  he  begged.  "No  one  else  does, 


156  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

I  assure  you.  Mrs.  Beeckman  and  I  often  find 
ourselves  in  the  same  drawing-room,  but  we  always 
manage  not  to  'meet.'  It's  rather  good  fun. 
This,  however,  is  one  house  where  our  skill  is 
never  called  into  play.  My  aunt  is  far  too  clever 
to  permit  such  contretemps.  She  says  quite  frankly 
that  she  considers  my  ex-wife  and  me  equally 
amusing,  and  that  she  has  no  intention  of  giving 
either  of  us  up — so  you  see,  jealousy  plays  no 
part  in  our  incompatibility.  When  I  come  here, 
Towner  either  admits  me,  or  he  says,  'Beg  pardon, 
Sir.  Mrs.  Beeckman  is  with  Madame,'  and  the 
situation  is  saved.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Beeckman  is 
protected  in  the  same  way.  It's  merely  a  case  of 
first  come,  first  served." 

Shades  of  Waverly!  Apotheosis  of  individual- 
ism !  Modernity  on  the  throne,  and  old-fashioned 
standards  in  the  scrap-heap ! 

The  man  took  frank  pleasure  in  Theodora's 
bewilderment.  "You  should  always  look  aston- 
ished," he  observed,  lowering  his  voice  an  extra 
shade. 

"Why?" 

"Because  your  eyes  are  so  lovely." 

"Van?"  said  his  aunt  rather  sharply,  at  this 
particular  juncture. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Honora?" 

"Come  here  and  talk  to  me.  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  an  age." 

He  went  perforce,  but  he  returned  to  Theodora's 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  157 

side  the  moment  that  another  arrival  set  him  free. 
His  aunt,  however,  had  him  on  her  mind.  She 
kept  casting  side-glances  in  his  direction.  These 
worried  him  not  at  all,  but  they  made  Theodora 
very  uncomfortable. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  and  talk  to 
someone  else?"  she  suggested.  That,  of  course, 
rivetted  him  to  her  side  for  the  balance  of  the 
afternoon. 

"By  no  means,"  he  answered,  settling  himself 
deeper  in  his  chair.  And  at  that  precise  moment, 
his  cousin  Alan  entered.  Naturally,  his  conversa- 
tion with  Theodora  was  limited  to  three-cornered 
commonplaces. 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  vented  her  displeasure  on 
Theodora  when  the  guests  were  gone;  very  un- 
fairly, the  girl  thought.  But  the  quasi-scolding 
leaped  to  the  forefront  of  her  mind  some  three  days 
later,  when  she  met  Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  Beeckman 
on  the  street.  It  was  in  the  morning  and  she  was 
exercising  the  poodles  near  the  Park  when  the 
man  overtook  her. 

"Did  you  catch  it?"  he  demanded,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

Theodora  feigned  denseness. 

"Well,  I  did,  anyhow,"  Beeckman  informed  her. 
"I  have  received  strict  orders  to  let  you  alone. 
That  being  so,  I  want  to  make  a  date  with  you 
for  your  first  free  afternoon.  We  can  see  a  piece 
and  have  some  tea.  Will  you? " 


158  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Theodora's  pride  was  instantly  in  arms. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said  stiffly; 
"but  certainly  not." 

"No  one  will  ever  know  it,"  he  said,  misunder- 
standing her  motive. 

"It  isn't  that.  .  .  .  That  isn't  the  sort  of 
thing  I  do." 

"I  see."  But  this  professional  woman-eater 
had  no  intention  of  letting  a  little  country  Miss 
think  she  had  piqued  him.  He  turned  and 
joined  her,  talking  easily  the  while.  In  fact,  he 
gave  her  quite  the  uncomfortable  feeling  of  having 
treated  a  molehill  like  a  mountain. 

Presently,  he  raised  his  hat  to  someone  across 
the  street.  Theodora,  following  the  direction  of 
his  eyes  with  her  own,  recognized  Alan  Beeckman. 

"You  know  my  cousin,  don't  you?"  asked  her 
companion. 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  met  Miss  Burrill?" 

"Yes."  Then  almost  in  spite  of  herself,  Theo- 
dora asked. 

"Are  they  engaged?" 

Something  in  her  voice  made  her  companion 
glance  at  her  sharply.  Then  he  smiled — glad  of 
so  easy  a  chance  to  pay  off  his  recent  snub.  He 
had  but  to  tell  the  truth. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  smilingly.  "They  are 
engaged,  and  everyone  says  it  will  be  a  match 
made  by  the  gods ! " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BY  the  time  she  had  been  in  New  York  eight 
weeks,  Theodora  discovered  one  of  the  odd  traits 
of  modern  American  society — its  restlessness. 
Having  spent  the  summer  at  Newport,  the  autumn 
at  Fair  Acres,  and  the  early  part  of  the  winter  in 
town,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  began  to  talk  of  Palm 
Beach.  She  would  take  Louise,  Theodora,  and 
the  poodles. 

Wonderful  hours  came  to  be  passed  in  the 
ateliers  of  New  York's  great  modistes.  Theodora 
had  never  hitherto  suspected  the  importance  of 
clothes,  nor  the  cult  which  their  worship  had  en- 
gendered. Surrounded  by  a  multitude  of  hushed 
wrapt  women,  she  sat  in  a  darkened  room  by  her 
employer's  side,  and  watched  a  procession  of 
models  parade  and  pose,  contort  and  simper. 
Some  were  very  beautiful;  some  were  typical 
Liliths;  some  were  merely  little  cocottes  in  embryo 
or  actuality.  What  must  their  homes  be  like? 
What  must  the  inside  of  their  minds  be  like? 
What  must  be  the  effect  of  their  mode  of  life? 
Scampering  around  in  front  of  men,  clad  in  the 
closest  of  tights  under  the  thinnest  of  negligees, 

159 


160  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

posed  almost  nude  on  blocks  while  masculine 
hands  draped  thin  chiffons  over  their  bare  shoul- 
ders and  bosoms — to  what  sort  of  careers  must 
such  an  atmosphere  tend? 

Very  much  to  Theodora's  distress,  Mrs.  Stuyve- 
sant  insisted  on  ordering  for  her  two  simple  demi- 
toilets  for  evening  use.  The  girl's  objections  were 
all  over-ruled. 

"Consider  them  uniform,  Miss  Winthrop,  if 
that  will  ease  your  pride,"  said  the  autocratic  old 
lady.  ' '  Remember  that  you  will  be  in  my  party, 
and  that  I  am  the  best  judge  as  to  how  it  should 
appear.  The  matter  of  the  gift  is  too  unimportant 
to  warrant  discussion."  But  she  stole  a  side- 
glance  when  the  girl  was  not  looking,  and  there 
was  an  odd  little  satisfied  smile  on  her  lips.  The 
young  creature  of  the  so-called  weaker  sex  who 
can  resist  pretty  clothes,  can  resist  most  things. 

The  luxury  of  modern  travel  was  a  revelation 
to  the  girl.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  had  a  drawing-room, 
Theodora  had  a  compartment,  and  Louise  had 
a  section.  Meals  were  carried  into  the  drawing- 
room.  From  certain  hampers,  Louise  produced 
wine,  bonbons,  fruit,  and  thermos-bottles  of 
special  tea  and  coffee.  New  magazines  and  books 
were  skimmed  and  given  away  to  porters.  And 
all  on  a  journey  of  thirty-six  hours ! 

They  arrived  at  night  and  went  straight  to 
their  rooms,  through  a  hushed  and  deserted  hotel. 
Even  so,  soft  southern  breezes  crept  through 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  161 

Theodora's  curtains  and  fanned  her  cheeks;  the 
rustling  of  palms  was  in  the  air;  perfumes  were 
strange  and  lovely;  in  spite  of  the  darkness,  the 
girl's  searching  eyes  discerned  the  oddness  of  the 
exotic  picture  outside  her  window.  She  was  so 
excited  she  could  hardly  wait  for  the  morning. 
It  would  be  her  own,  as  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  to 
rest  till  noon. 

Theodora  was  awake  so  early  that  she  knew  it 
would  be  useless  to  think  of  breakfast  for  more 
than  an  hour.  Her  room  overlooked  the  golf- 
links,  and  already  the  enthusiasts  were  out.  She 
watched  them  with  fascination.  Never  before 
had  she  seen  a  golf-course.  Waverly  boasted  no 
Country  Club,  and  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  had  never 
taken  her  to  the  one  near  Fair  Acres. 

By  nine  o'clock,  she  had  had  her  breakfast  and 
was  out  to  meet  the  day.  How  sparkling  it  was, 
how  beautiful!  Languorous  air  and  musical 
sounds,  golden  sunlight  and  purple  shadows, 
azure  sky  and  green-blue  sea,  scarlet  hibiscus 
making  gorgeous  splashes  against  dark  green 
palms,  velvety  sward  and  tawny  sands — and 
everywhere  the  kaleidoscope  of  animated  human 
life  and  multi-coloured  human  habiliments! 

At  noon  she  sat  on  the  verandah,  at  a  little 
table  by  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  side,  sipping  orange- 
ade, listening  to  wonderful  dance  music  from  a 
double  band,  and  watching  the  dancers.  So  happy 
was  she  that  she  forgot  even  to  envy  them. 


1 62  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Friend  after  friend  came  to  greet  Mrs.  Stuyvesant; 
would-be  friends  approached  and  were  promptly 
snubbed  for  their  pains.  Theodora  soon  discov- 
ered that  snobbery  and  snubbery  were  by  no 
means  confined  to  Waverly.  The  only  reason 
that  she  had  never  before  seen  them  in  New  York, 
was  that  hitherto  she  had  met  no  one  outside  the 
charmed  circle — no  one  who  did  not  "belong." 
Now,  she  learned  that  her  employer  was  a  past 
mistress  in  the  grades  of  cordiality  which  may 
be  infused  in  greetings  and  dismissals.  Had  the 
girl  known  her  Stevenson  better,  she  would  have 
been  reminded  of  his  opinion  that  "condescension 
is  a  singularly  one-sided  pleasure." 

After  luncheon,  she  found  herself  booked  for  a 
long  chair-ride  with  the  pampered  poodles.  A 
double  wheeled-chair,  a  negro  driver,  and  an 
intelligent  and  excited  girl  were  all  pressed  into 
the  service  of  two  sleepy  (and  soon  snoring), 
beasts.  But  it  is  indeed  an  ill  wind  that  blows 
no  one  any  good.  The  chair  might  have  served 
worse  purposes,  the  driver  made  his  daily  bread, 
and  Theodora  had  one  of  the  beautiful  and  memo- 
rable experiences  of  her  life.  Rolling  smoothly 
along  the  shore  of  the  lake,  watching  the  ascents, 
flights,  and  descents  of  hydroplanes,  peeping 
eagerly  at  the  beautiful  homes  on  her  other  side, 
listening  to  the  soft  "plomp"  of  an  occasional 
cocoanut  into  the  water  and  the  lap  of  the  resultant 
wavelets,  smelling  the  delicious  breath  cf  orange 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  163 

blossoms,  even  glimpsing  the  golden  fruit  itself 
hanging  heavy  and  luxuriant,  Theodora  pinched 
herself  to  see  if  she  were  not  dreaming.  Like  the 
pathetic  old  lady  in  the  nursery  rhyme,  she  was 
almost  ready  to  concede  that  "this  is  surely  none 
of  I!" 

She  longed  intensely  for  her  mother.  What 
would  it  not  be  to  ride  side  by  side  through  this 
wonderland!  Granted  wealth,  it  could  be  done. 
Oh,  money! 

It  was  nearly  twilight  when  they  made  the 
homeward  trip.  Before  they  were  in  sight  of 
the  hotel,  the  tinkling  sound  of  syncopated  music 
came  floating  to  meet  them;  and  then,  a  turn  in 
the  driveway  brought  them  face  to  face  with  a 
marvellous  sight. 

"Oh,"  cried  Theodora  to  her  driver,  "what  is 
that?"  For  her  own  part,  she  could  think  of 
nothing  but  fairyland. 

"Cocoanut  Grove,  ma'am,"  answered  the  dar- 
key, showing  all  his  teeth  in  a  sympathetic  smile. 
"Like  to  stop?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Theodora  assured  him,  "I'll  go  on 
to  the  hotel." 

So  that  was  the  famous  Cocoanut  Grove,  that 
paradise  of  palms  with  a  dancing-floor  laid  round 
their  base,  with  little  tables  clustered  on  the  sur- 
rounding sward,  and  with  white-clad  negroes  sing- 
ing to  the  accompaniment  of  banjo  and  guitar. 
Festoons  of  pink  lights  were  looped  from  tree  to 


1 64  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

tree  and  a  red  sun  was  just  slipping  away  behind 
the  waters  of  Lake  Worth.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
was  taking  tea  with  friends,  inside  that  sacred 
railing.  Probably  Theodora  herself  would  never 
get  a  nearer  view  than  now,  but  she  was  content. 
The  longing  that  filled  her  heart  was  not  for 
greater  pleasures  and  blessings  for  herself.  If 
only  her  mother  could  have  been  by  her  side, 
she  would  not  have  had  a  wish  in  the  world 
ungranted. 

The  new  life  soon  became  an  accustomed  joy. 
Day  followed  day,  languorous  and  dreamy,  scin- 
tillating and  sparkling — for  in  that  particular 
incongruous  combination  lies  the  charm  of  the 
greatest  of  American  winter  resorts.  Mrs.  Stuyve- 
sant's  circle  was  constantly  augmented.  The 
Garys  appeared — father,  mother,  and  lovely  daugh- 
ter, the  latter  in  the  r61e  of  invalid. 

"You  don't  look  very  ill  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant,  scanning  her  sharply. 

"Ah,  but  I  am,  Aunt  Honora.  I  don't  sleep 
well,  and  I  have  the  tiniest  little  appetite.  .  .  . 
Ah,  Miss  Winthrop,  how  do  you  do?" 

"You  know  Miss  Winthrop?"  demanded  her 
aunt  sharply. 

The  child  threw  Theodora  an  imploring  look. 
"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  perfect  aplomb,  "I 
met  her  at  Fair  Acres  one  morning,  when  I  went 
to  greet  Blanchette  and  Poilu." 

"Miss  Winthrop  seems  to  have  made  acquaint- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  165 

ance  with  all  my  Fair  Acres  guests,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  caustically. 

"If  they  all  thrust  themselves  upon  her  as  I 
did,"  replied  the  pretty  child  with  a  spirit  that 
would  have  amounted  to  pertness  had  it  been  less 
soft,  "she  is  much  to  be  pitied." 

Here  a  boy  came  up  and  begged  Miss  Marjorie 
for  a  dance,  whereupon  she  moved  off  with  a 
languor  that  left  her  poor  parents  bemoaning, 
and  pouring  their  fears  into  the  unsympathetic 
ears  of  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 

"Dr.  Homans  fears  tubercular  trouble,"  sighed 
the  mother. 

"Dr.  Homans  is  a  fool,"  snapped  the  aunt. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Honora,  how  can  you  say  so?" 

Just  then,  Theodora  felt  a  hand  laid  on  her 
shoulder.  "My  dear,"  said  someone,  "what  are 
you  doing  here?"  And  the  girl  turned  to  meet 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Neilson — that  friend  of  the  Misses 
Duncan  who  had  so  sympathized  with  her  desire 
to  go  to  work. 

They  greeted  each  other  with  delight,  and  then 
Theodora  paused  nonplussed.  Having  seen  the 
way  her  employer  treated  the  people  she  didn't 
care  to  meet,  being  uncertain  as  to  a  "compan- 
ion's" proper  procedure  under  like  circumstances 
(as  well  as  unwilling  to  submit  her  own  friend  to 
rudeness) ,  she  was  at  a  loss  as  to  her  course.  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  herself  solved  the  difficulty. 

"Introduce  your  friend  to  me,  child,"  she  said, 


1 66  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

and  her  voice  was  very  kind.  Nothing  ever 
escaped  her.  She  had  seen  Theodora's  difficulty 
and  appreciated  her  delicacy. 

As  it  happened,  she  and  Mrs.  Neilson  had 
many  friends  in  common,  and  the  older  woman 
was  particularly  gracious.  After  inquiring  about 
Theodora's  plans  and  ascertaining  the  fact  that 
she  took  the  dogs  out  each  afternoon,  Mrs.  Neilson 
turned  to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 

"May  I  join  Miss  Winthrop  on  her  ride  this 
afternoon?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly,"  smiled  the  old  lady.  "My  chair 
will  be  at  your  service."  Then  to  Theodora, 
"Louise  may  take  the  dogs  to  the  beach  today, 
and  you  and  Mrs.  Neilson  may  chat  undisturbed." 
Cutting  short  the  girl's  thanks,  she  turned  again 
to  Mrs.  Neilson.  "I  hope  you  will  have  tea  with 
me  some  day  soon,"  she  said. 

' '  That  is  a  very  charming  woman, ' '  she  observed 
later  to  Theodora,  when  they  were  alone.  "I 
shall  hope  to  see  her  often." 

Helen  Burrill  soon  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
though  ^she  insisted  that  she  could  not  stay  more 
than  ten  days.  As  she  was  under  the  chaperonage 
of  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  it  followed  that  Theodora 
saw  a  great  deal  of  her.  No  one  was  surprised 
when  Alan  Beeckman  arrived  a  couple  of  days 
later. 

Both   he   and    Miss   Burrill   were   delightfully 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  167 

friendly  with  Theodora,  and  she  soon  forgot  her 
slight  grudge  of  the  New  York  days.  After  all, 
what  was  there  to  preclude  her  pleasant  relation- 
ship with  a  girl  and  a  man  who  were  engaged  to 
each  other?  What  possible  difference  could  their 
engagement  make  to  her?  The  more  good  friends 
one  had,  the  luckier  one  was;  and  down  here  in 
this  happy  easy-flowing  life,  quarrels  seemed  silly. 
Anyhow  there  was  nothing  to  quarrel  about. 
Theodora's  foolish  pride  and  sensitiveness  had 
been  in  arms  unnecessarily.  Fortunately,  no  one 
else  knew  about  it,  and  she  found  it  pleasanter 
to  forget. 

She  saw  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Burrill  and  Mr. 
Beeckman  together,  and  she  saw  still  more  of  Mr. 
Beeckman  alone.  The  explanation  of  that  was 
simple.  Men  and  working  women  are  on  the 
scene  many  times  when  luxurious  women  are  not ; 
in  the  early  morning,  for  instance,  when  the  beach 
is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  deserted;  before  dinner, 
when  men  are  dressed  and  women  still  dressing; 
after  luncheon,  when  delicate  women  and  tired 
ones  are  apt  to  rest.  It  was  entirely  natural. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  girl  began  to 
experience  an  odd  feeling.  It  was  a  vague  sense 
of  happiness,  of  complete  satisfaction  with  life — 
as  if  just  around  the  next  corner  one  might  sud- 
denly catch  up  with  unexpected  bliss.  When 
she  came  to  examine  this  sensation  and  to  trace 
its  origin,  she  found  that  there  was  really  nothing 


1 68  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

to  warrant  it.  Everything  was  as  it  had  been; 
nothing  was  changed.  It  was  all  a  lotus-dream 
—the  effect  of  the  tropical  climate.  That  lovely 
thing  that  seemed  to  have  bloomed  in  her  heart, 
was  nothing  but  an  exotic  plant  of  the  senses. 

One  morning  as  Theodora  sat  on  the  verandah 
reading  to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  she  glanced  up  at 
the  turning  of  a  page  and  saw  Bishop  Wysong 
coming  toward  her.  He  was  her  own  Bishop, 
the  man  who  had  known  her  since  her  childhood, 
who  had  confirmed  her,  and  who  had  recommended 
her  for  her  present  position. 

He  had  never  met  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  but  he 
evidently  intended  to,  for  he  was  approaching 
them  with  all  the  haste  that  was  compatible  with 
dignity.  In  his  Bishop's  garb  and  with  his  really 
beautiful  face,  he  was  easily  the  most  conspicuous 
figure  in  that  gay  throng. 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  received  him  with  marked 
pleasure;  after  some  little  conversation,  she  sent 
Theodora  upstairs  on  an  errand.  This  was  exactly 
the  opportunity  that  the  Bishop  wanted;  he  was 
anxious  to  find  out  how  the  girl's  experiment  was 
working. 

"That  child  has  always  been  a  great  pet  of 
mine,"  he  observed.  "She  is  very  fine." 

Now,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  had  always  hated  to 
have  her  opinions  dictated.  It  irritated  her  and 
made  her  stubborn.  From  a  Bishop  she  might 
possibly  have  borne  it,  but  this  morning  happened 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  169 

to  be  a  poor  occasion  for  the  trial.  Not  two  hours 
earlier,  Alan  Beeckman  had  sought  his  aunt's 
permission  to  take  Theodora  to  the  Cocoanut 
Grove  some  afternoon;  he  and  Helen  had  decided 
that  it  was  a  shame  she  shouldn't  see  it,  and  they 
wanted  to  give  her  a  little  party.  Mrs.  Stuyve- 
sant — who,  had  the  truth  been  known,  would 
have  hated  to  have  anyone  guess  how  much  at- 
tached to  Theodora  she  was  secretly  growing — had 
vetoed  the  request  vehemently,  insisting  that  such 
a  festivity  would  be  "out  of  keeping."  Alan  had 
argued,  but  his  aunt  had  not  yielded.  In  conse- 
quence, she  had  ever  since  been  oppressed  with 
a  singular  feeling  of  remorse  which  was  in  no  wise 
mitigated  by  Bishop  Wy song's  praise  of  Theodora. 
She  stiffened  visibly. 

"She's  a  headstrong  piece,"  she  observed  dryly. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  you  surprise  me! 
Is  she  really?  Strong,  I  know  her  to  be — but  I 
should  never  have  said  headstrongl  ...  Is  she 
not  obedient  to  your  wishes?" 

"If  she  were  not,  I  should  certainly  have  dis- 
missed her." 

"I  see.  .  .  .  Then  she  has  perhaps  an  ungra- 
cious manner  of  obeying?" 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  fair  and  she  was  truthful. 
"I  think  possibly,"  she  said  coolly,  "we  have  a 
different  conception  of  the  word  headstrong." 

The  Bishop  beamed.  "Ah,"  he  cried,  "that  is 
undoubtedly  it.  You  use  the  word  in  the  sense 


170  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

of  spirited?  That,  she  most  certainly  is.  It  re- 
quired spirit,  dear  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  and  spirit  of 
no  mean  order,  for  that  child  to  start  out  in  the 
world.  She  comes  of  a  long  line  of  proud  and 
conservative  ancestors — there  is  no  better  blood 
in  the  country,  than  hers,  I  care  not  where  it  is. 
Her  own  family  happens  to  be  at  the  end  of  the 
line  where  the  money  has  all  disappeared,  but 
the  pride  and  conservatism  have  not  gone  with  it. 
In  the  face  of  her  entire  circle,  this  plucky  child 
carried  her  point.  As  you  say,  it  took  spirit  to 
doit." 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  aware  that  she  had  said  noth- 
ing of  the  sort,  let  the  matter  pass. 

"I  am  simply  delighted,"  continued  the  Bishop, 
"  to  see  in  what  pleasant  places  her  lines  have  fallen. 
It  was  a  matter  of  no  small  moment  to  me,  but 
Theodora  has  evidently  reaped  the  reward  of  her 
courage." 

"If  you  are  not  engaged  for  this  afternoon," 
said  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  suddenly,  "come  and  have 
a  cup  of  tea  with  me  in  the  Grove.  It  is  quite  an 
informal  party." 

Theodora,  passing  at  the  moment,  heard  the 
invitation  and  noted  the  Bishop's  rapt  attitude. 
The  smile  that  rose  to  her  lips  was  a  trifle  cynical. 

"Even  Bishops,"  she  thought.  "It's  the  way 
of  the  world,  I  suppose.  Oh,  well,  why  should 
I  care?" 

At  three  o'clock  on  that  same  afternoon,  she 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  171 

was  getting  into  her  chair  with  the  dogs  when  she 
heard  herself  called.  "My  dear,"  said  Bishop 
Wysong,  "can  you  make  room  for  me  in  there?" 

"Indeed  I  can,"  cried  the  girl.  "You  won't 
mind  the  dogs?" 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world.  Will  you  have 
me  back  at  the  Grove  at  a  quarter  before  five?" 

Theodora  promised,  and  they  started  off. 
"Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Neilson?"  was  the  girl's 
first  question. 

The  Bishop  had. 

"She  rides  with  me  three  and  four  times  a  week," 
said  Theodora  happily.     "She's  simply  a  dear, 
isn't  she?  .  .  .     How  lately  have  you  been  in 
Waverly,  Bishop  Wysong?" 

He  gave  her  all  the  Waverly  news,  then  he 
said: 

"Your  experiment  is  turning  out  beautifully, 
my  dear,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh  yes,  Bishop  Wysong.  More  than  beauti- 
fully." ' 

"You  have  a  very  kind  friend  in  Mrs.  Stuyve- 
sant." 

The  girl's  reply  was  noticeably  slower.  "Kind, 
certainly,"  she  finally  answered.  "I'm  not  so 
sure  about  the  friend.  Sometimes  I  think  she 
likes  me,  and  sometimes  I'm  sure  she  doesn't." 

"  I  can  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that  point.  She 
assuredly  does." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  if  she  does.    She's — well,  you 


172  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

know,  she's  a  decidedly  strong  character,  to  put 
it  mildly." 

The  Bishop  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
aloud.  "She  made  nearly  the  same  charge  against 
you,"  he  cried.  "And  it  is  quite  true  in  both 
instances.  ...  I  suppose,  between  two  such 
strong  characters  there  are  occasional  rubs?" 

"I  shouldn't  call  them  rubs,  exactly— 

"I  know.  But  we'll  let  that  go,  for  want  of  a 
better  term.  What  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  my 
dear  child,  was  this:  sympathy  is  the  greatest 
softener  in  the  world;  not  necessarily  expressed 
sympathy,  but  sympathy  of  feeling — the  effort 
to  put  oneself  in  exact  mental  accord  with  the 
other  person.  Even  when  it  doesn't  seem  to 
work,  the  chances  are  that  it  does.  No  edges 
were  ever  yet  worn  away  by  pride  and  stiffness. 
Understand  me,  I  fully  appreciate  pride.  Did 
you  lack  it,  I  should  urge  it  upon  you  as  a  priceless 
possession.  But  there  is  no  necessity  for  that; 
no  one  will  ever  accuse  you  of  lack  of  pride. 
Therefore,  being  so  happily  assured  on  that  head, 
let  me  recommend  softness  to  your  favour." 

"  But  Bishop  Wysong,  I'm  as  soft  as  mush!  .  .  . 
I  am,  truly!  You  needn't  laugh.  I  don't  want 
to  boast,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  never  dream 
of  answering  back " 

"I  should  hope  not,  my  dear." 

"Well,  it  isn't  always  so  easy.  .  .  .  And  I  never 
balk  at  orders,  and  I  keep  my  temper, — really, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  173 

I  do  everything  I'm  told,  without  a  word  or  a 
look." 

"Dear  child,  I  never  doubted  it.  I  wasn't  even 
thinking  of  your  actions;  I  was  thinking  of  your 
heart.  Never  let  it  feel  hard  and  cold  and  resent- 
ful. Never  harbour  small  grudges.  Don't  be  too 
feverishly  insistent  of  your  pride.  Don't  draw 
off.  Remember  that  no  good  was  ever  yet  done  by 
standing  stiffly  aloof.  Guard  against  all  inward 
bitterness,  my  dear,  and  keep  the  heart  of  a  little 
child — the  sweet,  honest,  trusting  child  that  I  have 
known  and  loved  for  so  many  years.  You  know 
Confucius  said:  'The  great  man  is  he  who  never 
loses  his  child's  heart.'  ' 

Turning  toward  the  girl,  he  was  surprised  to 
find  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  Impulsively  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  grasped  his.  "I'll  try,"  she 
whispered  shyly.  And  so  for  quite  a  space  they 
rode  in  silence,  hand  in  hand.  And  when  they 
parted,  Theodora  went  home  feeling  strangely 
light-hearted  and  tender.  Bishop  Wysong  had 
used  his  own  remedy  of  sympathy,  and  it  had 
worked. 

The  next  day  the  divorced  Mrs.  Beeckman 
appeared  on  the  scene.  Theodora  found  that  she 
was  known  as  "Mrs.  Delafield  Beeckman."  She 
couldn't  help  wondering  what  the  serious  suffragist 
ladies  would  think,  could  they  watch  their  leader 
here;  nor  yet  how  Bishop  Wysong  would  look 


174  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

upon  her  if  he  knew  her  history  and  standards — 
for  his  own  opinion  on  the  subject  of  divorce  was 
uncompromising.  But  in  the  midst  of  these 
thoughts,  Theodora  remembered  the  Bishop's 
small  sermon  of  the  previous  day — and  hastened 
to  put  the  matter  out  of  her  mind. 

The  season  was  growing  positively  hectic  as 
it  approached  its  end.  Theodora  saw  it  wane 
with  sorrow.  She  didn't  want  this  wonderful 
winter  to  be  over. 

One  morning  she  sat  facing  the  doorway  through 
which  a  crowd  was  pouring  out  onto  the  verandah 
for  the  morning  dance.  In  spite  of  wars  in  Europe, 
life  at  Palm  Beach  seemed  to  be  all  dancing;  one 
danced  in  the  morning  on  the  wide  verandahs, 
in  the  afternoon  under  the  palms  and  the  sky, 
and  in  the  evening  amid  the  more  conventional 
setting  of  ballroom  or  Palm  Room. 

Among  the  moving  throng,  Theodora  noticed 
Marjorie  Gary — but  what  a  transformed  Marjorie! 
No  longer  listless,  she  was  sparkling  with  anima- 
tion ;  no  longer  pale,  she  was  flushed  into  a  divine 
rose.  She  walked  as  though  on  air,  and  her  head 
was  turned  over  her  shoulder  as  she  spoke  to  the 
boy  who  followed  in  her  wake.  Theodora,  fol- 
lowing idly  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  nearly  gasped 
in  amazement.  She  couldn't  believe  the  evidence 
of  her  senses.  There,  not  ten  feet  from  her,  stood 
her  own  cousin,  Ned  Charrington. 

He  didn't  see  her  for  a  moment,  then  he  came 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  175 

bounding  in  her  direction.  "Brownie,"  he  cried, 
"what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  Didn't  they  tell  you  I  had  come?  But  that  is 
not  the  question  at  all.  What  in  the  world  are 
you  doing  here?" 

"Greatest  piece  of  luck  in  the  world!  Mid- 
years, you  know.  One  of  the  fellows  had  a  gover- 
nor who  was  just  starting  down  here  in  his  private 
car,  and  he  brought  three  of  us  along.  A  perfect 
cinch !  We  have  only  four  days,  but  you  can  bet 
your  bottom  dollar  we'll  know  how  to  make  the 
most  of  them.  The  exams,  were  late  this  term 
on  account  of  an  epidemic  that  broke  out  at  the 
usual  time.  The  stars  were  on  my  side  for  once. 
.  .  .  Your  old  lady  brought  you  down,  I  take  it?" 

"Yes.  And  Ned,  what  do  you  suppose?  My 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  is  Marjorie  Gary's  godmother 
and  great-aunt." 

It  was  the  boy's  turn  to  be  astounded.  "What !" 
he  cried.  "Then  she  must  hate  my  very  name. 
.  .  .  And  do  you  know  my  girl,  then?" 

"I  certainly  do." 

"Isn't  she  some  love?" 

"Yes,  Ned,  she  is.  But  what  are  you  ever 
going  to  do  about  it?" 

"The  Lord  only  knows.  The  one  thing  I'm 
sure  about  is  that  I'm  perfectly  crazy  over  her. 
I  can't  think  of  another  thing.  Sometimes  I  feel 
as  happy  as  a  king,  and  as  if  I  owned  the  world" 
(Theodora  nodded  with  a  strange  sensation  of 


1 76  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

comprehension),  "and  then  again,  I  want  to  kill 
myself  in  despair.  .  .  .  Here  she  comes  now. 
That  donkey  with  her  won't  get  another  dance, 
if  I  know  myself.  See  you  again,  Brownie,  old 
girl!"  And  he  was  off,  in  answer  to  his  sweet- 
heart's seeking  eyes. 

After  the  dance,  Marjorie  herself  came  running 
to  Theodora's  side.  "Ned's  just  told  me,"  she 
whispered.  "To  think  of  our  being  cousins  some 
day !  I've  always  had  such  a  warm  feeling  toward 
you — a  sort  of  special  drawing,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean.  From  the  very  first  moment.  Of  course 
it  was  this!  Isn't  it  too  wonderful?"  And  with 
a  quick  little  hand-squeeze,  she  too  was  gone. 

Theodora  smiled  tenderly.  Of  course  the  child 
thought  she  was  telling  the  truth,  but  it  was  plain 
to  see  that  any  relative  of  her  Ned's  would  have 
seemed  an  angel  to  her  enamoured  eyes. 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  extremely  irritated.  As 
no  one  could  read  the  real  reason  for  her  fit  of 
temper,  she  got  less  credit  than  she  deserved. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  girl  whom  she  had  dis- 
covered for  a  companion  suited  her  wonderfully 
in  that  capacity.  She  had  even  brains;  she  had 
even  breeding;  her  friends  were  delightful;  left 
to  herself,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  would  soon  have 
become  warmly  devoted  to  Theodora,  and  even- 
tually would  even  have  insisted  on  forcing  her 
down  the  throats  of  her  world. 

But  instead  of  this  pleasing  and  proper  process, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  177 

her  world  seemed  to  be  in  league  to  force  the  girl 
down  the  employer's  throat.  From  the  very  first 
moment,  the  Stuyvesant  circle  had  been  Theo- 
dora's champions.  The  guests  at  afternoon  tea 
spoke  of  her  charm.  Blanche  Beeckman  admired 
her  intelligence.  Van  liked  her  beauty,  and  tried 
to  flirt  with  her.  Alan  and  Helen  became  her 
warm  friends  and  planned  to  relieve  the  monotony 
of  her  position  (that,  if  you  please,  was  a  trifle  too 
much).  Mrs.  Neilson  and  Bishop  Wysong  never 
lost  a  chance  to  praise  her.  And  now,  that  head- 
strong chit,  Marjorie  Gary,  must  needs  go  and 
fall  madly  in  love  with  the  girl's  ineligible  cousin 
— thereby  spoiling  possibilities  of  all  eminently 
proper  relationships.  It  was  too  tiresome  to  be 
borne!  So  fumed  Mrs.  Stuyvesant! 

Alan  Beeckman  made  early  occasion  to  chant 
Ned's  praises  in  Theodora's  ear.  "He's  a  fine 
chap,"  he  said  warmly.  "  I  don't  wonder  Marjorie 
fell  in  love  with  him.  Don't  worry  over  the  affair, 
Miss  Winthrop;  it's  sure  to  come  out  all  right. 
.  .  .  I'm  sorry,  you  know,  that  this  must  be  our 
last  talk  here"  (he  and  Helen  and  Blanche  were 
leaving  that  night),  "but  you'll  soon  be  coming 
North  yourself,  and  then  I  shall  hope  to  see  a  lot 
of  you." 

Theodora  felt  unaccountably  depressed  as  she 
bade  him  good-bye;  she  had  always  had  a  strong 
gift  for  friendship  and  great  loyalty  toward  her 
friends.  Bishop  Wysong  had  gone  too,  and  Mrs. 


1 78  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Neilson.  The  beautiful  season  was  fast  drifting 
into  the  past. 

Ned  came  hurrying  to  her.  "Brownie,"  he 
cried,  "do  you  think  you  could  get  the  afternoon 
off  and  come  down  onto  the  beach  with  me?  It 
will  be  our  one  chance  for  a  good  talk.  Marjorie's 
sent  me  off.  She  has  to  have  her  hair  shampooed 
and  dressed  for  the  dance  tonight.  See  if  you 
can't  get  off." 

When  Theodora  returned  with  the  permission, 
she  found  her  cousin  fuming.  "It's  a  confounded 
shame,"  he  cried,  "that  you  should  have  to  go 
and  get  leave  for  an  afternoon  off  just  like  some 
servant.  You,  the  equal  of  anyone  here!  I 
don't  suppose  you've  had  one  ocean  dip,  have 
you?  Not  since  I  came,  I  know — or  at  any  rate, 
not  when  the  crowd  went  in.  And  not  one  dance, 
nor  one  afternoon  in  the  Grove!  It  makes  me 
hot." 

"But  Ned,  that's  only  because  I'm  a  worker. 
Everyone  has  been  lovely  to  me  and  I've  had  a 
wonderful  time.  Fancy  being  at  Palm  Beach  at 
all!  A  year  ago  that  would  have  seemed  like  a 
mad  dream." 

"That  may  be,  but  all  the  same  it's  damned 
unfair  (excuse  the  French,  Brownie)  that  money 
should  make  all  this  difference.  .  .  .  Come  on 
down  to  the  beach,  and  let's  sit  on  the  sands  and 
talk  about  it.  There  won't  be  a  soul  there  at  this 
hour,  yet  it's  as  beautiful  as  a  dream  of  love.  The 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  179 

afternoon  lights  on  the  sands  and  the  water  make 
me  wish  I  were  one  of  those  painter  chaps." 

Once  esconced  on  the  sun-kissed  sands,  Ned 
broke  out  again  with  his  grievance.  The  money 
question  was  breaking  his  heart. 

"  Isn't  it  the  very  devil,"  he  demanded  hotly, 
"that  a  thing  like  money  should  make  all  the 
difference  in  life?  If  I  had  a  dozen  millions, 
you'd  see  Marjorie's  parents  running  to  meet  me 
with  outstretched  hands — not  that  I'm  much,  at 
that.  But  I'd  be  plenty  good  enough  if  I  could 
flash  such  a  roll.  I'd  bring  mother  and  poor  old 
Meta  down  here,  and  I'd  dress  them  like  the  Queen 
of  Sheba.  You  could  bring  Aunt  Mollie.  I'd 
never  bring  Elise,  no  matter  how  much  I  had. 
The  little  cat!" 

"Ned,"  said  Theodora  suddenly,  "how  are  you 
going  to  get  back?" 

"The  old  boy  who  brought  us  down  is  going  to 
send  the  car  north  again  with  us.  We  leave  to- 
morrow night  at  one  o'clock.  Some  Nabob,  that 
old  chap ! ' '  And  again  the  talk  reverted  to  money. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  the  boy  moodily,  "if  I 
were  left  alone  in  a  room  where  a  million  dollars 
were  lying  loose,  and  if  I  knew  that  my  taking 
them  would  harm  no  one  and  cast  suspicion  on 
no  one  and  that  I'd  never  be  caught,  I'd  do  it  as 
quick  as  a  wink." 

"Ned!    You  wouldn't." 

"I  certainly  would.     Mind  you,  I  said  if  no 


i8o  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

one  would  be  hurt  or  suspected,  and  if  no  one 
would  be  made  poor  by  it.  Say  it  was  some  public 
graft  money,  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"But  it  would  be  stealing,  just  the  same." 

"Then  I'd  steal." 

Theodora  was  frightened.  The  remembrance 
of  that  night  in  Waverly,  when  she  had  helped  this 
boy  to  bed,  came  flying  back  into  her  mind  with 
all  its  old  horror.  Perhaps  Ned  was  weak  through 
and  through — charming,  but  weak.  The  remem- 
brance of  how  she  herself  had  been  coveting 
money  for  these  last  months  or  years,  gave  her 
a  singular  feeling  of  guilt. 

"You're  joking,  of  course,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  not,"  persisted  Ned  doggedly.  "  I  wouldn't 
do  it  to  anyone's  hurt " 

"But  your  own!" 

"But  my  own.  And  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  any 
paltry  sum.  Simply,  a  million  dollars  is  my  price. 
If  the  world  insists  on  making  money  the  sole  aim 
of  existence,  the  price  of  all  happiness,  then  I  claim 
a  right  to  take  it  if  I  can  get  it  as  readily  as  that." 

"And  you  think  money  so  gotten  would  bring 
happiness?" 

"I'd  risk  it,"  nodded  the  boy.  And  then,  to 
his  cousin's  relief,  he  began  to  laugh. 

"Poor  old  Brownie,"  he  said.  "I  got  you  all 
worked  up,  didn't  I?  Don't  worry.  I  imagine 
I'm  as  honest  as  the  next  chap,  only  I'm  honest 
in  making  startling  statements,  too." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  181 

Theodora  wanted  to  change  the  subject.  "  Ned," 
she  said,  "  do  you  know,  it  was  I  who  sent  you  that 
telegram  last  October — about  that  trip  to  Stam- 
ford, you  know?" 

"Whatl" 

Then  the  story  came  out.  "And  you're  the 
only  living  soul  to  whom  I've  ever  told  it,"  said 
Theodora. 

"You're  a  brick,  Brownie.  An  absolutely 
joyful  brick!" 

"But  Ned,  you  must  never  plan  such  a  thing 
again.  It  would  make  you  look  like  a  sneak  and 
a  coward." 

The  boy  hesitated.  "People  do  elope,"  he 
said.  "Nevertheless,  I  agree  with  you  that  it's 
a  pretty  poor  way." 

She  noticed  with  pleasure  that  he  laid  no  blame 
at  the  door  of  his  lady-love.  "It  will  come  out 
all  right  in  time,"  she  comforted. 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  If  it  doesn't,  I  might  just 
as  well  commit  suicide.  I  don't  want  to  live 
without  her;  I  can  tell  you  that  much." 

"Ned  dear,  there's  just  one  other  thing " 

The  boy  looked  up  quickly.  "That  night  in 
Waverly?"  he  forestalled  her.  Pulling  his  hat- 
brim  well  down  over  his  eyes,  he  lay  looking  at 
the  silver  sand  which  he  was  sifting  through  his 
hand.  "I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you  about 
that,"  he  said.  "  I've  cut  it  out." 

"You  mean  you've  given  it  up  entirely?" 


1 82  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

He  nodded.  "Never  touch  it,"  he  answered 
briefly. 

"Ned!" 

"Well — Marjorie  and  the  Mater,  you  know.  .  .  . 
I  got  to  taking  the  stuff  in  the  first  place  because 
I  was  so  unhappy.  Then  I  found  it  was  mighty 
hard  to  stop.  You  see,  some  chaps  can  drink 
and  others  can't.  I  happen  to  be  one  of  those 
who  can't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"Oh,  Ned,  I  can't  tell  you  how  happy  I  am!" 
Theodora's  voice  was  very  low.  "Was  it  hard?" 

"You  bet  your  life  it  was  hard.  I  hope  I'll 
never  have  to  put  through  anything  like  it  again." 

As  they  rose  to  go  Theodora  said : 

"  You  were  just  joking  about  that  money,  Ned?  " 

But  again  the  boy  laughed.  "My  million?" 
he  cried.  "  Indeed  not!  I'd  take  it  as  quick  as  a 
wink ! "  And  she  couldn't  make  him  say  anything 
else. 

Theodora  was  perturbed  about  that  million  of 
Ned's.  Even  as  a  joke  it  was  disconcerting.  She, 
herself,  had  been  growing  disgustingly  inpressed 
of  late  with  the  importance  of  money.  Suppose 
Ned,  in  his  unhappiness,  had  overreached  her! 

He  and  his  friends  left  that  night,  and  the  fol- 
lowing morning  Theodora's  chambermaid — a  con- 
spicuously friendly  individual — was  full  of  impor- 
tant mystery. 

"There's  an  awful  time  in  the  orfice,"  she  im- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  183 

parted.  "They're  trying  to  hush  it  up.  Last 
night  a  gentleman  was  robbed  of  six  thousand 
dollars  he'd  just  made  down  at  the  Club.  They 
think  it  was  stole  off  of  him  by  some  of  the  folks 
that  went  North — they  was  an  awful  pile  of  them. 
Ain't  that  terrible?  A  high-toned  place  like 
this!" 

With  sickenly  churning  heart,  Theodora  asked 
the  details.  It  appeared  that  the  gentleman  in 
question  had  made  a  sensational  winning  and  had 
cashed  in.  He  had  put  the  notes  in  a  wallet,  and 
the  wallet  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  dinner- 
jacket.  But  in  paying  his  chair-man,  he  must 
inadvertently  have  transferred  it  to  the  pocket 
of  his  top-coat.  Arriving  at  the  hotel,  he  was 
told  by  the  night-clerk  that  he  was  wanted  on  the 
long-distance  wire.  He  threw  his  top-coat  on  a 
chair,  believing  that  his  money  was  still  safe  in 
his  other  pocket.  His  message  had  taken  an 
unusually  long  time;  when  he  returned  his  coat 
was  gone,  and  with  it  his  money.  So,  too,  were 
the  passengers  North. 

Theodora  felt  sick.  She  knew  that  Ned  couldn't 
have  taken  the  money,  but  she  kept  thinking 
"suppose  he  had!"  The  thing  was  grotesquely 
impossible,  but  what  if  it  were  true?  She  con- 
jured up  for  herself  a  sort  of  vision — a  long  dark 
car,  a  pile  of  luggage,  a  light  top-coat.  Then, 
behind  the  closed  door  of  a  stateroom,  a  guilty 
boy  going  through  the  pockets  of  his  loot.  So 


1 84  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

persistently  did  her  mind  return  to  this  picture, 
it  came  to  seem  like  a  sort  of  revelation.  It  wasn't 
true — she  knew  it  couldn't  be  true — but  why  had 
Ned  said  that  awful  thing,  down  on  the  beach? 

Probably  few  human  lives  are  free  from  occa- 
sional attacks  of  nervous  hysteria.  Reason  doesn't 
appear  to  be  a  remedy;  ridicule  doesn't  help. 
The  fear  is  like  the  childish  bogy-man  hiding  in 
the  dark.  He  isn't  there;  mother  says  not, 
father  says  not.  But  suppose  he  were! 

Two  days  later  the  important  chambermaid 
returned  to  Theodora  with  the  solution  of  the 
mystery.  In  the  hotel  there  was  a  gentleman 
who  had  a  private  car.  This,  he  had  sent  North 
with  his  son  and  two  friends.  After  half  of  the 
trip  had  been  made,  a  light  top-coat  which  didn't 
belong  to  any  of  the  young  gentlemen  had  been 
discovered  among  their  luggage.  It  had  evidently 
been  flung  down  beside  their  waiting  pile,  and 
the  night-porter  who  had  taken  them  to  their  car 
had  gathered  it  up  by  mistake.  They  had  tele- 
graphed back  about  it,  and  they  would  express 
the  coat  as  soon  as  they  reached  New  York. 

So  the  coat  had  been  in  the  car,  but  Ned  had 
been  blameless  and  Theodora  had  made  a  simple- 
ton of  herself.  She  realized  how  ridiculous  her 
fears  had  been;  nothing  but  that  absurd  speech 
of  Ned's  would  ever  have  put  such  an  idea  in  her 
head. 

However,  foolish  as  it  all  was,  it  had  taught  her 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  185 

a  lesson.  It  had  called  a  halt  on  that  idea  of  hers 
about  the  all-importance  of  money.  It  was  be- 
cause people  put  money  on  such  a  pedestal  that 
thieves  and  forgers  existed,  that  graft  flourished, 
that  sharp  practice  and  light  standards  prevailed. 
One  girl  couldn't  do  much,  of  course.  She  could, 
however,  look  to  herself! 

And  yet  the  question  remained :  How  could  one 
live  without  money?  And  how  could  one  live 
well,  do  good,  and  give,  without  plenty  of  it?  Its 
lack  made  life  sordid  and  small;  it  checked  all 
generous  impulses  at  birth ;  it  kept  one  from  meet- 
ing the  pleasantest  people,  from  travelling,  from 
gaining  experience! 

"Ah,  well,"  thought  Theodora,  "some  money 
is  certainly  a  necessity.  I  suppose  the  trouble 
comes  when  we  think  more  of  it  than  of  anything 
else!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

/ 

IT  was  April  when  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  and  Theo- 
dora returned  to  New  York.  Alan  Beeckman 
came  to  see  them  at  once — without  Helen.  Then 
he  invited  himself  to  dinner — again  without 
Helen.  Next,  he  asked  them  to  go  with  him  to 
see  some  war  pictures  and  insisted  on  giving  them 
tea  afterwards.  And  then,  some  days  later,  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  sent  for  her  companion  rather  earlier 
in  the  morning  than  was  her  wont. 

As  soon  as  Theodora  entered  the  room,  she  knew 
that  something  was  brewing.  Her  employer  was 
nervous;  she  looked  anywhere  rather  than  at  the 
girl  she  had  summoned. 

"Sit  down,  Miss  Winthrop.  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you — something  that  I  greatly  regret 
to  say.  ...  I  have  been  having  several  serious 
talks  with  Dr.  Homans  lately,  and  he  absolutely 
insists  on  my  taking  a  trained  nurse  to  Fair  Acres, 
and  later  to  Newport." 

She  paused  and  Theodora  waited.  This  didn't 
seem  very  vital.  It  didn't  concern  her.  "Yes, 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant,"  she  said,  as  the  silence  became 
awkward. 

186 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  187 

"The  fact  is,  Miss  Winthrop,  much  as  I  regret 
it,  I  find  that  for  the  future  I  must  combine  the 
two  positions  in  one.  My  companion  will  have 
to  be  a  trained  nurse." 

For  just  a  moment  the  girl  failed  to  grasp  her 
meaning.  Then  it  surged  over  her  like  a  wave 
of  blackness  that  she  was  being  dismissed.  She 
felt  like  a  drowning  person.  There  came  a  ringing 
sensation  in  her  ears  and  her  hands  turned  deadly 
cold.  It  was  on  the  point  of  her  tongue  to  ask 
wherein  she  had  failed — for  she  knew  instantly 
that  she  was  being  given  a  false  reason.  Why 
would  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  have  to  economize  by 
combining  a  nurse  and  a  companion?  She 
wouldn't,  of  course.  But  much  as  the  girl  wanted 
to  ask  the  question,  her  pride  prevented.  Though 
her  voice  sounded  far-away  to  her  own  ears,  she 
answered  quietly.  "I  see/*  she  said.  "That  will 
be  quite  all  right  of  course,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  I 
shall  look  for  another  position  at  once.  I  have 
been  very  happy  here,  and  I  can't  thank  you 
enough  for  all  your  kindness." 

The  older  woman  still  avoided  her  eyes.  "I 
fear  I  am  never  kind,  Miss  Winthrop,"  she  said, 
"  except  to  myself.  You  have  filled  your  position 
acceptably,  and  you  have  made  me  very  comfort- 
able. I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  sever  our 
relationship." 

Theodora  was  frankly  puzzled,  "Thank  you 
very  much,"  she  murmured. 


1 88  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"I  shall  give  you  the  highest  references,  of 
course,"  continued  her  employer.  "That  is,  if 
you  are  thinking  of  taking  another  situation." 

"Oh  yes,  I  must." 

"Must  you?" 

"I  think  so,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant." 

"But  you  will  go  home  first?" 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Theodora  sharply.  "I  don't 
.want  to  do  that." 

"You  don't  want  to  go  home?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Why  not?  It  would  seem  to  me  the  natural 
thing  for  you  to  do." 

"Mrs.  Stuyvesant,"  said  the  girl  suddenly,  "if 
it  isn't  asking  too  much,  try  to  put  yourself  in  my 
place.  In  the  face  of  my  whole  world,  I  insisted 
on  going  to  work — the  first  woman  of  my  blood 
to  do  it.  You  see,  even  we  think  of  blood.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  carried  my  point.  Do  you  suppose  I 
want  to  crawl  back  now,  and  tell  them  that  I've 
been  dismissed?  I  certainly  do  not" 

There  was  an  odd  compression  to  Mrs.  Stuyve- 
sant's  lips;  her  hands  were  restless.  As  for  Theo- 
dora, she  was  fast  gaining  her  composure.  She 
was  still  in  the  dentist's  chair,  still  in  pain,  but 
the  tooth  was  out. 

"What  do  you  plan  to  do,  Miss  Winthrop?" 

' '  I  haven't  had  much  time  yet  to  plan.  But  I'd 
like  to  get  another  position,  and  then  write  home 
that  I'd  lost  one  and  found  another." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  189 

"You  must  let  me  help  you." 

"No,  I  thank  you,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant." 

"What?" 

"I  said  no  I  thank  you."  (This,  of  course,  was 
the  height  of  foolishness,  but  it  was  also  unalter- 
ably Theodora.  Poor  dear  Theodora!) 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Miss  Winthrop.  This  is 
nothing  but  temper." 

Theodora  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "As 
it  happens,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,"  she  said,  "I  don't 
feel  in  the  least  tempery  this  time.  But  I  have 
my  limitations." 

"Then  if  you  are  determined  not  to  go  home, 
you  must  stay  here  till  you  are  placed." 

"Had  you  planned  otherwise?"  asked  the  girl 
quickly. 

"Merely  when  I  thought  you  would  go  home. 
You  have  no  friends  in  New  York — 

' '  No.     But  there  must  be  boarding-places ' ' 

"This  is  nonsense,"  exploded  the  older  woman. 
"Nothing  but  the  most  arrant  nonsense!  You 
might  get  into  some  terrible  place.  When  I  re- 
ceived you  under  my  roof,  I  became  responsible 
to  your  mother  for  your  safety.  I  neither  can, 
nor  will,  permit  you  to  cancel  that  responsibility. 
You  are  very  young  and  very  hot-headed,  but  I 
trust  you  are  not  too  foolish  to  accept  advice  from 
a  woman  who  certainly  knows  the  world.  I  insist 
upon  your  remaining  here  till  you  find  a  position 
that  suits  you.  Consider  the  time  entirely  your 


190  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

own.  Sleep  and  eat  here,  and  use  your  leisure  to 
place  yourself.  I  will  give  you  the  addresses  of 
some  agencies.  There's  today's  Times — it  has 
always  a  long  list  of  situations.  Look  them  over; 
you  may  find  something  that  strikes  your  fancy. 
.  .  .  While  you  are  in  the  house,  run  in  here 
each  afternoon  and  tell  me  what  luck  you  have 
had.  .  .  .  One  thing  more,  Miss  Winthrop;  I 
shall  positively  insist  on  paying  you  two  months 
in  advance." 

"Indeed  no,"  cried  the  girl  instantly.  "No- 
thing could  make  me  take  it.  I  earn  money,  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant,  but  I  don't  accept  it  as  a  gift." 

"Will  you  be  quiet  and  listen  to  me?"  cried  her 
employer  tartly.  "You  will  do  as  I  say.  It  is 
nothing  but  the  two  months'  notice  which  I  owe 
you.  Girls  are  not  turned  onto  the  street  without 
proper  notice — at  least,  not  from  my  house. 
There  is  my  cheque.  Oblige  me  by  taking  it 
without  any  further  discussion." 

The  girl  did  not  touch  it.  "I  have  plenty  of 
ready  money,"  she  said  quietly.  "Since  you  are 
kind  enough  to  ask  me,  I  will  stay  here  while  I 
am  looking  around.  It  is  a  very  great  kindness 
on  your  part,  and  it  is  positively  the  only  sort 
that  I  can  accept.  May  I  go  now,  Mrs.  Stuyve- 
sant?" 

As  she  left  the  room  carrying  the  newspaper 
with  her,  the  old  autocrat  looked  after  her  and 
fumed  inwardly.  "The  independent  little  mon- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  191 

key,"  she  thought  furiously;  "daring  to  defy  me 
under  my  own  roof !  The  ridiculous,  independent, 
proud  thing!  .  .  .  Now,  I  suppose  I  may  look 
forward  to  a  long  procession  of  fools.  .  .  .  How 
I  shall  miss  her,  with  her  brains  and  her  absurd 
pride!  The  independent  minx!" 

Theodora  walked  down  the  corridor  like  a  dazed 
person.  She  wanted  to  cry.  It  was  the  hardest 
kind  of  work  to  keep  back  the  tears.  Like  most 
persons  who  are  born  with  pluck,  she  was  given 
plenty  of  opportunity  to  exercise  it,  Providence 
and  mankind  seeming  to  agree  that  inanity  must 
be  sheltered,  while  ability  can  fend  for  itself. 
Theodora  remembered  Talleyrand's  famous  reply 
when  the  brilliant  but  unlovely  Madame  de  Stae'l 
challenged  him  as  to  which  he  would  save  from 
drowning — herself,  or  her  beautiful  and  envied 
rival,  Madame  Recamier.  ' '  Madame,"  replied  the 
old  fox,  "on  sail  bien  gue  vous  savez  nager,"  thereby 
in  the  one  crafty  speech  complimenting  the  homely 
woman  on  her  cleverness,  and  reserving  his  own 
devotion  for  the  helpless  beauty. 

Well,  she  herself  must  certainly  have  known 
how  to  swim,  so  often  did  Fate  insist  on  pitching 
her  into  the  current ! 

She  sat  down  in  her  room  and  read  the  advertise- 
ments in  the  Times.  They  were  so  numerous  that 
her  spirits  revived.  No  one  need  lack  work,  surely. 

But  all  the  time  she  was  reading,  and  all  the 
time  she  was  dressing  for  the  street,  and  all  the 


192  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

time  she  was  faring  from  one  address  to  another, 
her  thoughts  were  busy  on  one  subject — why  had 
she  been  dismissed?  Had  the  thing  happened 
last  autumn  at  Fair  Acres,  she  could  have  under- 
stood it;  she  had  even  expected  it  then.  But  this 
was  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  Unless  it  had  to  do 
with  Ned's  affair,  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
for  it — and  surely  it  would  be  rather  unfair  to 
visit  a  thing  of  that  sort  on  her  head.  It  was  all 
a  mystery. 

For  three  days  she  fared  ceaselessly  and  un- 
successfully. It  frightened  her  a  little  to  find  how 
differently  things  may  sound,  and  look.  Such 
wretched  holes  did  she  enter,  such  pitiful  stipends 
was  she  offered,  such  tasks  and  combinations  of 
tasks  was  she  asked  to  assume,  that  her  heart 
sank  lower  and  lower.  If  one  didn't  know  stenog- 
raphy, nor  typing,  nor  filing,  nor  a  switchboard, 
— if  one  were  not  already  a  "skilled  hand,"  as  a 
milliner,  or  saleswoman,  or  accountant, — if  one 
had  no  special  gift,  such  as  drawing  or  music, — 
then  one  must  apparently  be  resigned  to  doing 
housework,  or  entering  a  factory  or  laundry.  As 
demonstrator  or  canvasser,  Theodora  knew  she 
would  be  worse  than  useless;  she  wasn't  made 
that  way.  The  idea  of  model  or  mannequin 
never  once  entered  her  head.  And  back  of  her 
there  was  no  influence  nor  "pull." 

Then,  on  her  fourth  day  of  discouragement 
she  came  home  to  find  Mrs.  Delafield  Beeckman 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  195 

sitting  with  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  and  to  hear  that 
the  dashing  Blanche  probably  held  the  solution 
to  her  riddle.  "Miss  Winthrop,"  she  said,  "my 
aunt  has  been  telling  me  of  your  change  of  plans. 
I'm  wondering  if  I  can't  help  you.  You  remem- 
ber that  Mrs.  Felton  whom  you  heard  speak  for 
suffrage?" 

"Oh,  yes"  (Theodora  couldn't  repress  a  little 
smile) .  ' '  Very  well  indeed. ' ' 

"Well,  on  the  strength  of  that  acquaintance 
she  has  written  me  that  she  is  extremely  anxious 
to  give  more  time  to  the  cause,  and  to  speak  in 
public  more  frequently.  But  in  order  to  do  so, 
she  must  find  a  mother's  helper  for  her  two  child- 
ren. She  particularly  wants  one  who  can  speak 
French  fluently,  and  my  aunt  tells  me  that  your 
French  is  excellent." 

Theodora  wanted  to  say,  "Yes,  the  poodles 
seem  satisfied  with  it,"  but  naturally  she  refrained. 
Mrs.  Beeckman  continued: 

"Mrs.  Felton  asks  if  among  my  acquaintances 
there  is  not  someone  who  is  parting  with  a  treasure 
whom  she  could  secure.  Perhaps  you  might  care 
to  try  it?  At  least,  it  will  give  you  a  summer  in 
the  country." 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  on  the  mor- 
row Theodora  journeyed  thirty  miles  out  into  the 
country,  and  came  back  engaged. 

' '  What  are  your  duties  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
when  the  girl  came  in  to  report.  Theodora  smiled. 

13 


194  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"A  little  of  everything,"  she  answered.  "I  am 
to  talk  French  with  two  children  who  don't  know 
a  word  of  it,  help  them  with  their  lessons,  keep 
their  clothes  in  order,  teach  them  music,  give 
them  an  idea  of  dancing,  and  assist  with  the  cook- 
ing and  general  housework — for  there  is  no  serv- 
ant. The  family  can't  afford  a  servant  and  a 
helper,  and  Mrs.  Felton  'prefers  a  mental  compan- 
ion to  a  slave. '  As  far  as  I  can  see,  I'm  to  be  every- 
thing but  laundress.  They  do  hire  a  laundress." 

"But,"  cried  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  "this  is  simply 
scandalous." 

Theodora  laughed  lightly.  "I'm  extremely 
glad  to  get  it,"  she  answered  simply. 

"What  will  she  pay  you?" 

"Thirty-five  dollars  a  month." 

"I  won't  permit  it,"  fumed  the  old  lady. 

"Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  please  listen  to  me.  I'll 
admit  that  I  shouldn't  care  to  work  long  at  that 
price,  even  though  I  got  my  living  thrown  in.  I 
know  that  the  education  that  makes  me  eligible 
to  this  position  should  make  me  worth  much  more 
money — but  unfortunately,  it  doesn't.  A  com- 
bination of  cook,  housemaid,  nurse,  seamstress, 
governess,  teacher  of  dancing  and  music,  and 
mental  companion,  seems  to  be  worth  just  about 
eight  dollars  a  week  plus  board — a  little  over  a 
dollar  a  day !  Less  than  half  what  a  charwoman 
gets!  No  man  would  ever  dream  of  giving  so 
much  for  so  little." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  195 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed!  Nor  should 
you." 

"No;  but  I've  learned  a  great  deal  in  these  last 
few  days.  I  find  that  women  seem  to  be  habitu- 
ally underpaid.  Their  best  chance  is  a  man's 
poorest — what  man  would  think  he  had  reached 
the  heights,  as  stenographer  or  typist?  I'm  be- 
ginning to  think  there  may  be  something  in  Mrs. 
Beeckman's  equal  suffrage,  after  all.  If  a  woman 
had  a  vote,  she  would  be  more  valuable.  As 
things  are,  evidently  the  only  kind  of  work  at 
which  she  can  hope  to  get  anything  like  proper 
wages  is  specialized  work — and  unfortunately  I've 
never  specialized.  .  .  .  This  city  is  a  place  where 
one  learns  quickly.  I  think  I'm  about  ten  years 
older  than  I  was  four  days  ago.  And  I've  come 
to  one  certain  conclusion,  at  least." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"That  it  is  not  by  working  in  private  homes 
that  I  can  hope  to  save  anything  toward  old  age. 
I  was  very  fortunate  in  this  first  venture,  for  the  rea- 
son that  I  got  so  much  besides  money.  Here  with 
you,  I  traveled  for  the  first  time,  I  lived  charm- 
ingly, I  met  delightful  people,  I  learned  much.  I 
shall  always  be  thankful  for  the  experience."  . 

The  old  lady  moved  uneasily;  but  the  girl 
went  on,  almost  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  herself. 

"I  find  that  thirty-five  dollars  a  month,  plus 
living,  is  about  an  average  wage.  With  the  slight- 
est possible  expenditure  for  clothes,  and  allowing 


196  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

a  minimum  for  doctors,  dentists,  and  so  on,  it 
would  take  me  seven  years  to  save  two  thousand 
dollars.  The  income  on  two  thousand  is  one 
hundred.  In  other  words,  it  would  take  me 
seventy  years  to  save  the  principal  of  an  income 
of  a  thousand  dollars,  on  which  to  live  comfortably 
in  my  old  age.  You  see,  I  should  have  begun  the 
day  I  was  born — or  even  a  little  sooner." 

It  was  a  shocking  statement — not  the  sort  to 
tickle  and  please.  "And  have  you  conceived 
any  remedy  for  this  state  of  things?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  irritably.  "Of  course,  there's 
only  one  sane  one,  and  that  is  marriage." 

"Yes,  and  that's  just  the  trouble.  It  shouldn't 
be.  That's  why  girls  grow  up  to  be  such  disgust- 
ing man-chasers ;  that's  why  men  are  coaxed  and 
flattered  and  cajoled  and  enticed.  It's  nothing 
but  the  girl's  love  of  herself,  her  desire  to  place 
herself  above  the  necessity  for  working.  Person- 
ally, I'd  rather  die  than  marry  a  man  just  to  be 
supported  by  him — even  if  I  had  the  chance. 
I'd  rather  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  than  feel 
that  my  one  chance  was  to  spend  the  money  of 
some  man,  living  or  dead.  But  the  average  girl 
wouldn't.  That's  the  reason  she  makes  herself 
so  cheap.  That's  why  she  develops  into  such  a 
man-eater.  No  wonder  they  make  jokes  about 
it !  The  other  day  at  the  theatre,  someone  asked 
a  man  on  the  stage  what  he  was,  and  he  said, 
'I'm  the  answer  to  a  maiden's  prayer, '  and  every- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  197 

one  roared.     Poor  men!     Talk  about  girls  being 
pursued!" 

As  Theodora  left  the  room  her  employer's  eyes 
followed  her.  There  was  an  odd  look  in  them. 
Anyone  who  didn't  know  to  the  contrary  might 
almost  have  taken  it  for  admiration,  mixed  with 
regret.  How  well  the  girl  walked !  How  proudly 
she  carried  her  head!  Evidently  her  ancestors 
had  had  the  right  to  look  up. 

Theodora  was  to  take  a  three-thirty  train  the 
next  afternoon.  She  came  in  immediately  after 
luncheon  to  say  good-bye. 

"You'll  let  me  hear  of  your  safe  arrival,  of 
course,"  said  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 

"Yes,  indeed.  Thank  you  once  more  for  every- 
thing, Mrs.  Stuyvesant — and  good-bye." 

She  came  and  offered  her  hand.  To  her  sur- 
prise she  felt  herself  being  drawn  gently  downward. 
"Kiss  me  good-bye,  child,"  said  her  employer 
unexpectedly,  turning  a  withered  cheek  to  receive 
the  caress.  "Good  luck  to  you.  I  shall  miss 
you." 

As  Theodora  climbed  into  the  waiting  motor, 
tiiere  was  a  lump  in  her  throat  and  her  eyes  were 
blurred  with  tears.  Behind  her  she  left  an  old 
worldling  who  was  feeling  singularly  homesick 
and  forlorn. 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible,"  said 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  to  herself.  "I  suppose  I'm  a 


198  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

fool.  But  what  am  I  going  to  do  without  her? 
At  least,  I  can  keep  an  eye  on  her  through  Bishop 
Wysong.  What  a  hideous  ogress  she  must  think 
me!  Dear  me,  dear  me!  But  it  was  simply  the 
only  thing  to  do  I" 


CHAPTER  X 

THEODORA'S  hand-satchel  being  heavy,  she 
took  a  hack  from  the  Hillcrest  station  to  her  new 
home.  No  more  luxurious  private  motors  for 
poor  dear  Theodora ! 

When  the  hack  drove  up  to  her  door,  Mrs. 
Felton  was  stretched  in  a  hammock  on  the  wide 
shady  verandah.  She  rose  languidly  and  came 
forward  in  kindly  greeting.  Her  anaemic  appear- 
ance was  in  sharp  contrast  with  Theodora's 
splendid  ruggedness. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  to  your  room  and  rest?" 
asked  Mrs.  Felton. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not  in  the  least  tired,  thank  you. 
I've  only  run  out  from  town,  you  know." 

"Yes;  but  the  very  air  of  New  York  depresses 
me.  I  always  come  home  a  wreck." 

Theodora  hesitated.  "I  see  you're  resting," 
she  finally  said,  "so  I  won't  disturb  you.  If  you'll 
tell  me  where  my  room  is,  I'll  just  run  up." 

"I'd  be  glad  to  have  you  sit  and  chat  with  me 
if  you  feel  like  it.  I  wasn't  sleeping,  but  I  make 
it  a  rule  never  to  sit  up  when  I  can  lie  down.  You 
know  that  hygienically  the  horizontal  position  is 

199 


200  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

the  only  proper  one.  The  organs  are  at  rest, 
instead  of  hanging  in  space.  It  is  the  difference 
between  a  grand  piano  and  an  upright.  The 
latter  is  merely  makeshift — evolved  for  conven- 
ience in  furnishing." 

Theodora  listened  astonished.  Not  yet  know- 
ing that  theories  were  the  meat  and  drink  of  this 
household,  she  was  naturally  taken  by  surprise. 
"But  in  that  case,"  she  laughed,  "I  should  think 
the  Lord  wouldn't  have  made  us  upright.  We 
should  have  been  horizontal  instead  of  vertical." 

Mrs.  Felton  smiled  slightly.  She  was  a  serious 
person  and  her  smiles  came  rarely. 

"I  fancy  the  Lord  had  very  little  to  do  with  it," 
she  answered.  (According  to  her  convictions, 
He  had  very  little  to  do  with  anything.  Certainly 
He  played  small  part  in  the  life  of  the  Felton 
family.)  "We  had,  of  course,  that  position  orig- 
inally; but  with  increased  intelligence  and 
activities,  we  were  forced  to  pull  ourselves  erect  in 
order  to  do  more.  You  knew  that,  I  suppose?" 

Theodora  shook  her  head.  She  could  hardly 
keep  her  face  straight.  "I'm  afraid  I  didn't," 
she  confessed. 

Mrs.  Felton  looked  disappointed.  She  had  been 
looking  forward  to  a  daily  companion  in  theoretic 
discussion.  However,  she  loved  to  instruct. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  would  be  nice,"  continued 
Theodora.  ' '  I  could  run  up  to  my  room  and  get 
rid  of  this  bag,  wash  my  face,  get  into  a  fresh 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  201 

blouse,  and  then  come  down  and  talk  to  you  till 
you  have  something  else  for  me  to  do." 

"Very  well,"  agreed  Mrs.  Felton,  who  had 
resumed  her  horizontal  position  long  ere  this; 
"there  won't  be  much  to  do.  I  hope  you  had  a 
good  luncheon?" 

"Excellent,  thank  you." 

"They  always  overload  their  stomachs  in  the 
establishments  of  the  rich.  They  live  for  nothing 
but  the  material  side  of  life.  Look  at  their 
bloated  figures  and  pouchy  fronts  as  they  grow 
older- 

"Mrs.  Stuyvesant  is  very  slender,"  interposed 
Theodora. 

"She  is?  She's  an  exception  then,  or  else  she's 
ill.  However,  I'm  glad  you  had  a  good  luncheon; 
we  needn't  bother  over  an  evening  meal.  We'll 
just  have  a  bite  out  of  doors.  Mr.  Felton  is  in 
town  and  won't  be  home  till  after  midnight,  so 
you  and  the  children  and  I  can  eat  a  picnic  supper. 
I  don't  believe  in  wasting  this  lovely  weather  in 
housework." 

"No,  indeed.  And  where  is  my  room,  Mrs. 
Felton?" 

"Second-floor  back,  on  your  left.  You'll  easily 
find  it.  It's  just  past  the  bathroom.  I'll  wait 
for  you  here." 

"Well!"  thought  Theodora  to  herself,  as  she 
made  her  way  upstairs.  "This  promises  to  be 
educational,  to  put  it  mildly."  Following  direc- 


2O2  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

tions,  she  came  to  the  room  assigned  to  her  use 
and  walked  in.  "Well!"  she  ejaculated  for  the 
second  time. 

The  room  was  large  and  bright  and  airy.  It 
held  not  a  single  thing  but  a  bed,  a  chiffonier, 
and  one  straight  chair.  There  wasn't  a  table, 
nor  the  sign  of  anything  on  which  to  put  a  book, 
a  portfolio,  nor  a  glass  of  water.  There  wasn't 
a  vestige  of  paper  on  the  wall,  nor  a  single  curtain 
nor  shade  at  any  of  the  four  big  windows.  There 
wasn't  a  rug  on  the  floor.  There  were  exactly 
three  articles  in  that  room,  and  Theodora  herself 
made  the  fourth. 

The  bathroom  was  almost  equally  bare,  but 
she  found  a  fresh  towel  hanging  on  a  hook  and 
made  use  of  it.  After  tidying  herself,  she  went 
downstairs  again,  leaving  her  bag  still  packed  and 
sitting  on  the  floor. 

"Did  you  find  your  way?"  asked  the  languid 
lady  of  the  hammock  as  Theodora  rejoined  her. 
"Oh  dear  me,  don't  take  that  straight  chair. 
Bring  that  rocker  over,  then  you  can  tilt  back 
and  prop  your  feet  on  the  rail.  No  one  can  see 
you." 

"This  is  perfectly  comfortable,  thank  you. 
Yes,  I  found  my  way.  And  what  a  lovely  big 
room  you've  given  me." 

"Well,  at  least  it  isn't  all  cluttered  up.  I  hate 
dust-catchers.  I  never  have  any  hangings,  nor 
ornaments,  nor  pieces  of  carved  furniture.  It 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  203 

sickens  me  to  think  of  the  hours  women  spend 
rubbing  off  dust  that  begins  to  accumulate  again 
the  moment  they  stop." 

"It  never  occurred  to  me  that  way,"  mused 
Theodora.  "If  you  didn't  wipe  it  off  you'd  soon 
be  snowed  under,  wouldn't  you? — or  dusted  under, 
to  be  more  explicit.  It's  like  the  woman  who 
combed  her  hair  once  a  week,  'and  it  was  bad 
enough  then. ' 

The  girl  was  singularly  receptive  and  felt  at- 
mosphere with  unusual  quickness,  so  she  was 
instinctively  assuming  a  relationship  with  this 
new  employer  which  was  totally  different  from 
that  which  she  had  held  with  her  former  one — 
entirely  dissimilar  from  any  which  she  would 
probably  hold  with  any  future  one.  It  was  not 
a  matter  of  respect  and  its  lack — it  was  far  from 
being  caused  by  the  contrast  between  formality 
and  simplicity,  luxury  and  plainness.  Theodora 
knew  that  she  was  no  whit  the  inferior  of  the 
fashionable  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  except  in  experience 
and  (as  she  thought)  charm.  She  never  for  a 
moment  considered  herself  the  superior  of  the 
theoretic  Mrs.  Felton.  It  was  merely  that  she 
anticipated  her  acceptable  attitude.  In  this  new 
home,  she  was  expected  to  argue  every  subject  that 
was  broached.  Should  she  fail  to  do  so,  she  would 
be  a  disappointment;  she  would  be  branded  as 
mindless  and  conventional. 

"I  once  heard  of  a  Frenchman,"  she  now  con- 


204  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

tinued,  "who  should  have  your  sympathy.  He 
counted  up  how  many  hours  and  days  and  weeks 
he'd  have  to  spend  dressing  and  undressing,  in  the 
course  of  an  ordinary  lifetime — and  it  discouraged 
him  so  much  that  he  committed  suicide." 

"I  don't  blame  him  in  the  least.  Our  clothes 
should  grow  on  us,  as  they  did  in  the  early  ages. 
That's  where  animals  have  the  better  of  us." 
(Theodora  thought  with  inward  mirth  of  all  the 
couturi&res  and  ateliers  and  mannequins  she  had 
seen  in  New  York.)  "Speaking  of  Frenchmen," 
Mrs.  Felton  went  on  to  say,  "isn't  this  war  a  dis- 
grace?" 

"Germany's  part,  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  all  of  it.  To  think  of  human  beings 
settling  disputes  by  murdering  each  other!  When 
it's  all  over,  they'll  have  to  sit  down  and  end  it 
with  a  discussion.  Why  can't  they  have  their 
discussion  first  instead  of  last?" 

"But  don't  you  see,"  rejoined  Theodora  eagerly, 
"don't  you  see  that  the  discussion  will  depend 
entirely  on  the  result  of  the  fighting?  It  will  be 
a  very  different  discussion  when  Germany  is 
beaten,  from  what  it  would  be  if  she  could  win." 

"Well,  perhaps.  But  it's  a  horrid  thought. 
We,  in  this  house,  don't  approve  of  war."  . 

"Why  of  course  not.  Who  does?  It's  war 
that  the  Allies  are  fighting.  But  you  don't  ap- 
prove of  disease,  nor  crime,  nor  poverty,  nor  filth, 
yet  you  know  that  they  exist  and  you  have  to  fight 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  205 

them.  It's  the  same  with  this  war,  isn't  it  ?  It  cer- 
tainly exists,  whether  people  approve  of  it  or  not." 

"It  shouldn't,"  insisted  Mrs.  Felton  stubbornly. 
"And  it  takes  two  sides  to  make  a  fight.  If  no 
one  else  would  fight,  Germany  couldn't." 

"But  then,  she'd  have  grabbed  the  world." 

"Nonsense!  What  would  she  want  with  the 
world?" 

"But  Mrs.  Felton,  she  says  so  herself.  Haven't 
you  read  all  her  talk  about  world  domination, 
and  'welt  politik, '  and  all  the  rest  of  it?" 

"I  read  as  little  as  possible  on  the  disgusting 
subject.  It's  all  exaggerated,  anyhow.  If  Bel- 
gium hadn't  resisted — 

"She'd  have  been  swallowed." 

"She  couldn't  have  been  any  worse  off  than  she 
is  today." 

' '  She  could  have  been  more  dishonoured. ' '  Sud- 
denly Theodora  stopped  and  looked  curiously  at 
her  companion.  "You  don't  sympathize  with 
Germany,  do  you?"  she  demanded. 

"Certainly  not.  We're  loyal  Americans. 
Much  too  loyal  to  want  to  see  our  country- 
pitched  into  the  fight  by  the  plutocrats — 

"You're  not  Pacifists?" 

A  year  earlier,  Mrs.  Felton  would  have  answered 
"yes"  with  proud  humility.  Time  was,  when 
she  and  her  husband  had  rejoiced  to  call  themselves 
Pacifists.  But  that  was  before  the  term  had 
become  opprobrious. 


206  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

"We're  not  Pacifists,"  she  answered  stiffly, 
"but  we  certainly  disapprove  of  war.  Rather 
than  see  a  son  of  mine  engage  in  such  a  brutal 
career,  I  would  maim  him  with  my  own  hands." 

By  exercising  all  her  will  power,  Theodora 
managed  to  hold  her  tongue.  She  realized  that 
even  while  this  new  employer  of  hers  might  court 
ordinary  argument,  there  must  be  a  limit  to  that, 
as  to  all  things.  If  Theodora  should  say  all  that 
she  was  burning  to  say — if  she  should  use  all 
those  wonderful  arguments  she  had  heard  in 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  library,  as  well  as  on  the  lips 
of  Miss  Bend — arguments  about  "men  who  hide 
behind  other  men,"  about  youths  who  stop  behind 
to  finish  their  education  while  their  comrades 
finish  the  fight,  about  "winning  the  war  with 
other  women's  sons" — then  there  would  not  only 
be  certain  unpleasantness,  but  she  would  be  out- 
side her  rights  as  newcomer  and  paid  dependent. 
And  after  all,  what  good  would  it  do?  She  had 
never  in  her  life  heard  an  argument  in  which  any- 
one was  convinced. 

Nevertheless,  it  astonished  her  no  little  to  hear 
this  woman  who  fought  so  hotly  for  the  rights  of 
a  sex,  proclaim  herself  so  totally  blind  to  the 
rights  of  nations.  And  a  clever  and  educated 
woman,  at  that! 

It  grew  to  be  twilight,  then  dusk,  then  dark. 
Theodora  wondered  whether  they  were  to  sit 
there,  unfed,  all  night.  What  a  strange  atmos- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  207 

phere!  All  talk  and  theory,  no  action  nor  effort! 
However,  Mrs.  Felton  finally  roused  herself. 

"  I  must  go  and  find  the  children,"  she  announced 
with  a  tired  sigh — quite  as  though  she  had  been 
working  hard.  "Then  we'll  have  a  bite  and  go 
to  bed.  Your  trunk  won't  probably  come  until 
morning.  They're  terribly  independent  down  at 
the  baggage  office;  there  should  be  a  woman  in 
charge.  Have  you  night  things  with  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  thank  you.     I'm  quite  all  right." 

The  lady  of  the  house  trailed  languidly  off  on 
her  still  hunt  for  her  offspring.  Her  voice  rose 
on  the  quiet  night  air,  ever  receding  in  the  dis- 
tance. "Eugenia,  Walter,  where  are  you?  It's 
supper  time.  I  want  you  to  come  home." 

It  was  some  minutes  before  she  reappeared, 
and  her  advent  was  heralded  by  whining  and 
arguing  in  childish  trebles.  Evidently  the  young 
Feltons  considered  a  quarter  of  nine  "the  shank 
of  the  evening,"  and  far  too  early  an  hour  to  have 
their  liberty  curtailed.  Theodora  wondered  how 
old  they  might  be. 

In  the  dark  she  could  get  only  a  vague  impres- 
sion of  a  tall  lanky  girl  and  a  smaller  boy,  neither 
of  whom  seemed  overburdened  with  social  graces. 
They  hung  behind  their  mother,  their  sole  votive 
offering  to  the  new-comer  being  a  cessation  of 
quarrelling. 

Mrs.  Felton  turned  to  Theodora.  "Do  you 
like  raw  eggs?"  she  asked. 


208  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

For  a  moment  Theodora  was  too  startled  to 
reply  that  she  had  never  tasted  them,  but  the 
question  unloosed  the  momentarily  bridled  juve- 
nile tongues. 

"I  won't  eat  raw  eggs,  nasty  old  things."  .  .  . 
"You're  always  making  us  have  those  rotten  old 
eggs."  .  .  .  "Can't  we  have  something  decent 
to  eat?"  .  .  .  "I  want  something  good — mother, 
can't  we  have  something  good?" 

"  Oh  children,  be  quiet'1  (The  tirade  evidently 
bored  the  mother  much  more  than  it  shocked  her.) 
"I  can't  hear  Miss  Winthrop  speak.  We're  great 
hands  here  for  raw  eggs  and  milk,  Miss  Winthrop. 
With  those  and  bananas  and  shredded  wheat,  we 
usually  make  out  a  supper  when  Mr.  Felton  is 
away." 

Somehow,  this  painted  Mr.  Felton  to  Theodora's 
imagination  as  a  heavy  gourmand  in  whose  ab- 
sence a  food-average  must  be  struck.  But  she 
found  that  Mrs.  Felton  was  awaiting  an  answer 
anent  the  attractively  sketched  meal. 

"I  don't  think  I  care  for  any  eggs,"  she 
smiled,  "and  I'm  sorry  to  say  I  never  drink 
milk " 

"  Never  drink  milk? "  (Theodora  might  almost 
as  well  have  confessed  to  murder.) 

"No.  But  a  shredded  wheat  biscuit  and  a 
banana  are  quite  all  that  I  shall  want." 

They  went  into  the  house  and  turned  on  one 
crudely  glaring  electric  light.  Theodora,  looking 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  209 

about  her,  found  that  she  was  in  the  kitchen. 
She  had  never  seen  one  like  it. 

It  was  about  as  big  as  a  closet,  and  it  had  one 
window.  There  were  wall-cupboards,  a  gas  range, 
a  sink,  one  deal  table,  and  one  high  wooden  stool. 
Nothing  else. 

"My  idea  of  a  kitchen,"  said  Mrs.  Felton,  "is 
a  place  where  you  can  stand  in  the  middle,  reach 
all  you  want,  and  get  out  as  quickly  as  possible. 
I  don't  believe  in  intelligent  women  spending  their 
lives  in  kitchens." 

She  went  in  search  of  the  edibles  and  Theodora 
turned  her  attention  to  the  children. 

The  girl  was  the  older.  She  looked  to  be  about 
ten,  but  tall  for  her  age.  She  was  spectacled, 
shrewish,  stockingless,  and  sandalled,  also  very 
dirty  both  as  to  clothes  and  as  to  face  and  hands. 
Her  brother  looked  to  be  some  two  years  younger; 
he  was  rather  handsome,  but  very  shifty-eyed. 
"A  shrew  and  a  sneak,"  thought  Theodora. 
"What  a  joyful  outlook!" 

The  food  arrived  and  was  carried  in  to  the 
dining-room,  where  it  was  dumped  on  the 
table  in  an  unappetizing  heap,  and  then  des- 
patched as  quickly  as  possible.  The  entire 
meal  occupied  about  ten  minutes.  A  raw  egg 
must  perforce  be  swallowed  with  celerity;  one 
shredded  wheat  biscuit  and  one  banana  will 
not  permit  themselves  to  be  the  excuse  for  much 
dallying. 


2io  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Felton,  "we'll  just  stack 
these  dishes  till  morning,  and  go  to  bed." 

"I  won't  go  to  bed,"  whined  Eugenia.  "I'm 
going  out  to  catch  fireflies  with  Eliza  Methune. 
I  promised  her  I  would.  We  saw  two  fireflies  and 
we're  going  to  put  them  under  a  tumbler." 

"You're  going  to  bed  without  another  word," 
remarked  her  mother. 

"I  won't.     You  shut  your  mouth." 

"Eugenia!  What  do  you  suppose  Miss  Win- 
throp  will  think  of  you?" 

Eugenia  murmured  something  to  the  effect 
that  Theodora's  opinion  was  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence to  her;  but  she  was  forced  to  yield.  The 
house  was  shut  and  locked,  the  one  light  was 
extinguished,  and  in  the  pitch  darkness  the 
quartette  felt  their  way  upstairs. 

"I'll  tap  on  your  door  when  we're  through  in 
the  bathroom,"  said  her  hostess  in  good-night. 
"And  I'll  do  the  same  in  the  morning.  Can  you 
waken  by  yourself,  or  do  you  want  to  be  called?" 

"What  time  do  you  get  up?" 

"Oh,  between  seven  and  half -past.  The  child- 
ren have  to  go  to  school  at  half -past  eight." 

"Oh,  they  go  to  school?" 

"Yes,  to  the  public  school — a  wretched  place, 
but  all  that  we  can  afford  as  yet.  I'd  planned  to 
take  them  out;  but  I  found  I'd  be  amenable  to 
the  law  unless  I  put  them  in  some  other  school. 
Talk  about  free  countries!  The  term  doesn't 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  211 

end  till  sometime  in  June,  so  music  and  dancing 
will  be  all  that  you'll  have  to  teach  the  children 
till  then.  I  thought  through  the  summer  I'd 
have  them  coached  so  they  could  both  skip  a  grade. 
.  .  .  Well,  good-night.  You  think  you'll  waken 
without  being  called?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  I'm  always  awake  by  seven. 
Good-night."  And  Theodora  was  left  to  her 
thoughts. 

She  woke  long  before  seven  because  two  of  her 
windows  faced  the  east,  and  the  sunlight  streamed 
in  through  the  unshaded  panes  inflaming  shafts. 
In  vain  did  she  try  to  cover  her  eyes  and  go  to 
sleep  again.  The  light  was  too  strong. 

"I  wonder  why  our  eyelids  aren't  thicker," 
she  thought.  "I'm  going  to  ask  Mrs.  Felton; 
she'll  be  sure  to  know.  You'd  think  they'd  be 
thick  enough  to  keep  out  the  light,  since  that's 
their  purpose;  but  they're  not.  If  you  shut  your 
eyes  in  a  railroad  train  and  go  past  a  bridge,  you 
can  tell  the  posts  from  the  spaces.  .  .  .  Tonight 
I'll  tie  a  stocking,  or  a  towel,  over  my  eyes.  There's 
no  use  in  waking  at  five  every  morning." 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  The  out- 
look was  very  beautiful,  with  that  wonderful 
witching  newness  and  freshness  of  an  early  summer 
morning.  Everyone  knows  it ;  everyone  who  thrills 
to  it  thinks,  "how  wonderful  this  is — too  won- 
derful to  miss.  I'm  going  to  rise  at  this  time 


212  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

every  day,"  and  then  straightway  forgets  the 
good  resolution  until  the  next  time  that  stern 
necessity  calls. 

Around  Theodora  stretched  small  lawns,  small 
streets,  and  small  houses — all  new,  pretty  and 
well-kept.  There  were  no  boundaries  between 
the  grass-plots,  and  their  absence  added  to  the 
apparent  space.  Lovely  old  forest  trees  had 
been  spared  by  the  wise  settlers  in  this  new  com- 
munity, and  many  gay  flower-beds  raised  dewy 
perfumed  blossoms  to  greet  the  day.  Over  all, 
was  an  effect  of  peace  and  sweetness. 

The  girl  thought  longingly  of  the  beauty  of 
Fair  Acres  on  this  lovely  morning — even  of  that 
of  New  York.  Then  her  heart  turned  still  farther 
back  to  Waverly  and  the  mother  whom  she  missed 
so  sorely  and  so  constantly.  She  never  dared  let 
herself  dwell  on  that  subject. 

Fortunately  she  had  stationery  and  a  fountain 
pen  in  her  valise,  so  she  made  good  use  of  the 
morning  hours.  Not  a  word  did  she  write  of  the 
homesickness  that  assailed  her,  not  one  of  any 
disappointment.  If  the  far-away  parent,  reading 
that  letter,  could  find  between  its  lines  aught  but 
cheeriness  and  interest,  she  would  be  clever  indeed. 

When  Theodora  went  down  to  help  prepare 
breakfast,  she  supposed  she  would  meet  her  host. 
But  she  found  that  he  had  fed  himself  and  hurried 
to  town  long  ago ;  and  again  the  girl  thought  what 
a  strange  household  she  had  entered. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora  !  213 

Breakfast  consisted  of  thin  grey  cocoa  and 
oatmeal.  Theodora,  being  offered  a  fried  egg, 
accepted  it.  Immediately  both  children  de- 
manded like  luxuries.  After  despatching  them, 
they  hurried  off  to  school ;  Mrs.  Felton  and  Theo- 
dora washed  the  dishes  and  then  went  upstairs 
where  the  girl  made  up  the  bedrooms  while  her 
employer  did  the  meagre  marketing  by  telephone. 
Such  was  her  invariable  habit;  it  insured,  of 
course,  the  maximum  of  cost  and  the  minimum  of 
quality.  But  then,  it  waS  much  less  trouble. 

"And  she  talks  about  being  poor,"  said  Theo- 
dora to  herself.  "I  wonder  what  she'd  think  of 
her  husband  if  he  stayed  at  home  and  attended  to 
his  end  of  the  business  by  telephone." 

During  one  of  the  pauses,  she  asked  Mrs.  Felton 
if  there  were  good  shops  in  the  place. 

"Yes,  pretty  good.  They're  down  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  it  takes  a  whole  hour  out  of  the  morning 
to  attempt  to  go  down  and  market.  I  haven't 
the  time  to  waste  on  that  sort  of  thing."  (She 
hadn't  the  time,  either,  to  waste  on  dusting,  or 
housework,  or  cooking,  or  taking  care  of  her  child- 
ren. Theodora  wondered  to  what  ends  her 
valuable  time  was  spent.) 

"By  the  way,  Mrs.  Felton,"  she  said,  "I  was 
wondering  this  morning  why  our  eyelids  weren't 
thick  enough  to  keep  out  the  light." 

The  older  woman  was  immediately  interested. 

"Why,  don't  you  see,"  she  replied,  "the  primi- 


214  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

tive  man^was  forced  to  rise  with  the  sun.  He  had 
no  alarm  clocks  to  call  him.  He  had  no  artificial 
lights  by  which  to  work  at  night.  So  he  had  to 
rise  with  the  sun,  and  go  to  bed  with  it." 

"Of  course,"  said  Theodora.  "How  stupid 
I  am!"  And  to  herself  she  thought:  "She's 
really  a  lot  cleverer  than  I  am." 

At  that  moment  a  voice  called  from  downstairs. 
A  neighbour  had  run  in  to  ask  if  she  might  dump 
all  her  family  cares  on  Mrs.  Felton's  shoulders, 
while  she  herself  hurried  off  to  town  to  do  some 
shopping.  The  family  cares  consisted  of  a  long 
marketing  list  (to  be  attended  to  by  telephone,  of 
course),  a  young  baby  on  the  bottle,  and  a  small 
daughter  (the  "Eliza"  of  the  fireflies),  to  come 
in  at  lunchtime.  "I've  given  her  her  lunch  in  a 
box,"  explained  the  hurried  mother,  "if  you'll 
just  let  her  bring  it  here  to  eat." 

To  Theodora's  surprise,  Mrs.  Felton  assumed 
this  unlovely  burden  quite  as  a  matter  of  course 
—though  the  baby  was  teething  and  yelled  most 
of  the  time.  After  the  girl  had  lived  a  little  longer 
in  Hillcrest,  she  came  to  find  that  such  favours 
were  payable  in  kind.  You  kept  a  neighbour's 
children,  and  she  kept  yours.  In  that  way,  you 
were  both  enabled  to  get  an  occasional  holiday. 
It  was  the  "community  spirit "  and  in  this  instance 
it  didn't  work  badly. 

Dinner,  while  fairly  substantial,  was  unappetiz- 
ing. Although  the  children  must  have  been 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  215 

hungry,  they  balked  at  the  food.  Once  more 
Mrs.  Felton  exhibited  a  surprising  firmness  and 
patience.  Theodora  learned  more  about  the 
chemistry  of  foods  in  the  course  of  that  one  short 
meal  than  she  had  ever  before  known  in  her  life. 
Spinach  must  be  eaten  whether  one  liked  it  or 
not,  because  of  the  iron  it  contained.  It  was 
cheaper  than  meat  and  nearly  as  nutritious. 
Olive  oil  and  peanut  butter  were  essential  foods 
and  might  not  be  sidestepped.  Apparently,  hu- 
man bodies  and  human  minds  were  important,  but 
human  characters  and  dispositions  were  entirely 
negligible. 

Theodora  began  to  realize  that  her  own  healthy 
appetite  would  have  to  be  satisfied  by  a  bill  of 
fare  substantially  eked  out  by  purchases  in  the 
village.  She  hoped  there  were  good  fruit  shops 
there.  The  fact  that  she  was  barred  from  the 
staple  articles  of  Felton  diet — milk  and  raw  eggs — 
and  that  her  palate  was  unfortunately  fastidious 
about  badly  prepared  food,  made  her  dietic  future 
rather  a  problem. 

The  dinner  dishes  were  washed  and  put  away, 
the  baby  fortunately  decided  to  sleep  until  her 
grateful  mother  came  to  carry  her  home,  and  so 
the  mental  treat  of  the  day  was  in  order.  Theo- 
dora was  told  to  bring  a  basket  of  mending  and 
establish  herself  comfortably  by  the  hammock. 

"I'm  writing  a  paper,  and  we  can  talk  it  over 
while  I  work,"  said  Mrs.  Felton. 


216  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

"That  will  be  lovely.     What  is  your  subject?" 

"Eugenics." 

Then  Theodora's  instruction  began  anew.  She 
heard  for  the  first  time  of  the  Mendelian  theory, 
and  of  many  other  things  as  well.  "You  see," 
cried  Mrs.  Felton,  warming  to  her  subject,  "now 
that  these  things  are  understood,  we  have  it  in  our 
power  to  raise  an  absolutely  perfect  race — simply 
by  cutting  out  the  undesirables  and  mating  the 
desirables  according  to  fixed  laws." 

"But  won't  that  also  cut  out  love  and  prefer- 
ence?" 

"Certainly,  but  they  are  merely  ephemeral. 
Love — what  you  mean  by  love — never  outlasts 
a  few  months." 

"A  good  many  persons  must  have  married  for 
those  few  months." 

"Yes,  in  ignorance.     And  repented  at  leisure." 

"But  I  should  think  everyone  would  want  to 
marry  from  preference  personally,  and  then  ar- 
range proper  eugenic  marriages  for  the  rest  of 
mankind.  And  I  should  also  think  that  what 
you  call  'undesirables'  might  often  object  to  being 
cut  out  of  the  programme." 

Mrs.  Felton  smiled  in  pity.  "Human  beings 
must  learn  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  the  good  of 
the  race,"  she  answered. 

The  conversation  passed  to  the  subject  of  birth 
control,  Theodora  now  hearing  of  that  remarkable 
science  for  the  first  time.  She  was  frankly  startled. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  217 

"Good  gracious,"  she  thought,  "I'm  glad  mother 
isn't  here.  What  in  the  world  would  she  think? 
She'd  be  horrified.  In  fact,  I  think  I'm  rather 
horrified  myself." 

The  children  came  home  from  school  and  lin- 
gered on  the  edge  of  the  conversation.  Theodora 
glanced  at  them  nervously  from  time  to  time. 

"Oh,"  said  their  mother  comfortably,  "they 
know  all  about  such  things.  I  don't  believe  in 
fostering  morbid  curiosity  by  making  mysteries 
of  natural  processes.  I  explain  everything  to  my 
children.  In  that  way  I  avoid  the  danger  of 
having  them  learn  things  in  a  garbled  and  in- 
correct manner.  They  study  sex-hygiene  first  in 
plants  and  flowers,  then  in  animals.  We  have 
many  pretty  games  about  it." 

Theodora  was  simply  speechless.  Fortunately 
a  first  music  lesson  was  due.  It  was  a  relief  when 
they  all  rose  and  went  in  to  the  piano — Mrs. 
Felton  with  the  others.  She  thought  she  might 
pick  up  something  by  habitually  listening  to  the 
instruction  that  Theodora  gave  her  children. 
She  was  the  most  conscientiously  serious  woman 
that  Theodora  had  ever  met. 

"We  could  have  music  and  dancing  on  alternate 
days,"  she  suggested.  "And  then  you  might 
oversee  the  practising  in  between.  How  would 
that  strike  you?" 

"I  should  think  it  would  be  an  excellent  plan. 
But  about  the  dancing  lessons — could  you  play 


2i8  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

a  simple  tune  or  two  while  I  train  the  children  to 
dance  to  it?" 

"Mercy  no.     I  can't  play  a  note." 

"Then  are  they  to  dance  without  music?" 

"Could  they?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  they  could  learn  rhythm 
very  well,  should  you?" 

"Then,  Miss  Winthrop,  you'll  have  to  sing.  T 
could  never  carry  a  tune  or  I'd  do  it  for  you." 

Theodora  suddenly  gulped.  She  hastily  took 
out  her  handkerchief  and  covered  her  face.  The 
thought  of  dragging  around  those  clumsy  children, 
instructing  them  as  to  steps,  counting  the  beats, 
and  singing,  all  at  one  and  the  same  time,  was  too 
much  for  her  risibles. 

When  supper-time  came,  the  children  again 
responded  impudently  to  their  mother's  call. 
Other  children  in  the  community  did  the  same. 
All  around,  in  the  still  night,  Theodora  could  hear 
calling  parents  being  invited  by  their  offspring 
to  shut  their  mouths,  and  "I  won't"  seemed  to 
be  the  local  childish  classic.  Mrs.  Felton  ex- 
plained this. 

"We  parents  around  here,"  she  said,  "do  not 
believe  in  killing  a  child's  spirit.  We  deplore  the 
old  time  sternness  of  parents ;  we  think  it  engenders 
slyness  on  the  part  of  the  child.  A  child  has  as 
much  right  to  his  opinions  as  if  he  were  an  adult. 
So  we  take  no  notice  of  these  remarks;  we  pass 
them  by  in  silence.  The  child  will  soon  outgrow 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  219 

them.  If  he  doesn't,  boarding  school  will  weed 
them  out.  The  important  thing  is  not  to  kill 
individuality." 

Theodora  couldn't  help  thinking  that  disagree- 
ableness  and  impudence  were  far  from  being  indi- 
viduality, and  that  respect  and  self-control  were 
a  pretty  good  foundation  on  which  to  build  char- 
acter; but  naturally,  she  didn't  say  so. 

She  never  even  saw  Mr.  Felton  until  Saturday 
afternoon.  He  was  an  accountant  in  New  York, 
and  he  had  many  little  side  jobs  which  occupied 
him  before  and  after  office  hours.  So  he  went 
early  and  came  late,  feeding  himself  morning 
and  night,  and  meeting  his  family  once  a  week 
only.  On  Saturday  afternoons,  all  business  being 
closed,  he  came  home  early  and  spent  a  day  and 
a  half  on  his  own  domain. 

He  was  far  from  being  the  person  that  Theodora 
had  pictured  him.  She  rather  pitied  him  at  sight. 
He  was  thin  and  stooped  and  tired-looking,  and 
seemed  worried  and  nervous.  On  an  income  of 
eighteen  hundred  or  two  thousand,  he  had  chosen 
his  wife  because  of  her  delicate  health  and  her 
knowledge  of  Greek  verbs — and  he  was  apparently 
perfectly  well  satisfied  with  his  bargain.  It  was 
fortunate  that  he  was.  Mr.  Felton  had  married 
a  feminist,  and  feminists  do  not  encourage  fool- 
ishness in  their  husbands. 

All  in  all,  Theodora  had  a  number  of  surprises 
in  this  new  home,  but  none  of  them  exceeded  the 


220  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

one  she  received  on  the  first  Sunday.  Coming 
downstairs  in  a  pretty  summer  muslin,  ready  to 
go  to  church,  she  found  everyone  in  the  oldest 
clothes  they  possessed.  The  men — both  Mr. 
Felton  and  the  neighbours  who  appeared  on  their 
premises — were  in  dirty  overalls,  and  all  day  long 
they  employed  themselves  in  gardening,  painting, 
mowing  grass,  mending  pipes,  and  so  forth.  To 
and  fro  from  house  to  house  they  went,  borrowing 
tools  and  what  not.  It  was  a  new  conception  of 
the  day  of  rest  and  worship.  At  least,  it  was  new 
to  Theodora. 

Mrs.  Felton  was  pained  to  find  her  companion 
an  orthodox  religionist.  "You  seem  to  have  too 
good  a  mind  for  that  sort  of  superstition,"  she  said. 

"It  means  a  great  deal  to  me,"  the  girl  replied 
simply. 

"Then  in  that  case,  I  must  ask  you  never  to 
mention  the  matter  to  the  children.  I  have  always 
taken  great  pains  to  point  out  to  them  the  fallacy 
of  myths — Santa  Claus  and  fairies,  and  all  such 
foolishness;  but  on  the  subject  of  religion,  I  plan 
to  leave  them  entirely  unbiassed.  When  they 
are  old  enough,  they  can  choose  for  themselves." 

Theodora  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  they 
weren't,  of  course,  to  be  "unbiassed"  about  eu- 
genics, .nor  hygiene,  nor  French,  nor  music,  nor 
any  branch  of  their  secular  education;  most  cer- 
tainly not  on  the  subject  of  food  and  diet;  merely 
on  this  negligible  one  of  religion. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  221 

The  girl  went  alone  to  an  almost  empty  church 
where  her  appearance  was  hailed  somewhat  in 
the  light  of  a  Godsend.  That  afternoon,  she 
wrote  to  her  mother. 

DEAREST  MOTHER  (wrote  the  daughter), 

Do  you  know  why  your  eyelids  aren't  thicker? 
Do  you  know  that  you  were  intended  to  go  on  all 
fours,  only  your  overweening  ambition  got  the  better 
of  you,  and  made  you  stand  up  on  end  and  stick  your 
fingers  into  all  sorts  of  pies  that  weren't  meant  for 
you?  Why  did  you  neglect  my  education  so  shame- 
fully ?  I  never  even  heard  of  eugenics  and  sex-hygiene. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  was  disgracefully  prejudiced  in 
favour  of  religion. 

To  come  down  to  sense,  I'm  well  and  sufficiently 
happy,  and  I'm  seeing  a  side  of  humanity  that  I  never 
dreamed  existed.  My  world  is  turned  topsy-turvy. 
One  thing  I've  learned;  and  that  is,  that  the  beauty 
and  perfume  of  life  are  very  valuable  things,  and 
that  they  don't  depend  on  money.  If  you  and  I  had 
a  little  home  like  this,  we'd  be  perfectly  happy  and 
we'd  make  it  a  cosy  and  lovely  nest.  Just  a  little 
willingness  to  take  pains,  a  little  concern  over  material 
things,  and  Mrs.  Felton  could  have  a  home  that  was 
really  a  home.  But  she  cares  for  nothing  but  theories, 
and  she  hates  trouble  as  I've  been  taught  to  hate 
the  Evil  One.  However,  she  isn't  very  strong.  She's 
always  envying  me  my  health.  If  she  had  it,  she'd 
probably  use  it  to  grab  the  vote;  it  must  be  simply 
wasted  on  me. 

I've  met  a  few  of  the  neighbours  and  they  all  seem 


222  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

to  be  the  same  sort.  I  suppose  it's  a  case  of  "birds 
of  a  feather."  I'm  always  introduced  as  "our  new 
luxury,  Miss  Winthrop."  Nothing  matters  here 
but  education.  I  wish  you  could  see  me  giving  a 
dancing  lesson.  I'm  teacher,  orchestra,  and  partner, 
all  in  one.  It's  an  absolutely  joyful  sight. 

There's  one  thing  that  constantly  strikes  me  as 
odd:  there's  no  consciousness  of  blood  nor  of  forbears 
in  this  family.  I've  never  before  been  in  a  home 
where  that  was  so.  In  Waverly,  as  you  know,  it  is 
the  whole  thing.  In  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  set,  it  is 
silent  but  arrogant.  Here,  it  is  lacking.  So,  too, 
is  the  blood  itself,  I  suppose.  But  equally  so,  too, 
is  all  pretentiousness  about  it — which  is  certainly  a 
mercy. 

Supper-time,  and  I  must  fly.  More  love  than  I 
can  write. 

Your  own, 

THEODORA. 

Theodora  went  downstairs  to  be  hailed  with  one 
of  Mrs.  Felton'  s  brilliant  ideas.  "Miss  Winthrop, ' ' 
said  that  weary  lady,  "I  don't  think  we'll  bother 
with  much  supper.  I'm  going  to  give  a  porch 
party  to  introduce  you  to  the  neighbourhood,  and 
I'm  busy  making  out  the  list  and  the  programme." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  date  for  the  porch  party  was  set  for  the 
following  Wednesday.  The  guests  being  invited 
by  telephone,  all  accepted  promptly.  Evidently 
Hillcrest  society  was  not  overburdened  with  social 
engagements. 

Material  preparations  were  of  the  simplest. 
Some  grape-juice  was  poured  into  a  kitchen  bowl 
and  mixed  with  tepid  water — there  was  no  way  to 
cool  it,  as  Mrs.  Felton  did  not  indulge  in  ice  till 
much  later  in  the  season.  Several  cans  of  biscuits 
were  opened  and  emptied  onto  a  platter.  The 
bowl,  the  platter,  a  pile  of  saucers,  another  of  paper 
napkins,  and  an  array  of  little  glasses  were  all  set 
on  the  porch  table,  which  had  been  garnished  with 
a  nosegay  for  the  occasion.  Then  all  the  chairs  in 
the  house  were  carried  onto  the  porch,  and  every- 
thing was  ready. 

Theodora  wondered  much  to  see  the  chairs 
placed  in  set  rows,  while  one  deep  one  stood  facing 
the  rest.  But  Mrs.  Felton  had  evidently  a  very 
definite  plan  in  her  head.  She  had  already  spent 
hours  arranging  the  ''programme"  for  the  after- 

223 


224  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

noon.  This  she  explained  to  Theodora,  as  they 
awaited  the  arrival  of  the  guests. 

"I  don't  like  haphazard  conversation,"  she  said. 
"It's  too  inconsequent,  and  it's  apt  to  degenerate 
into  foolishness.  So  I  have  arranged  a  series  of 
topics — one  for  each  woman,  and  numbered  in  se- 
quence. We  will  draw  our  topics  and  discuss  them 
in  order,  the  woman  who  is  conducting  the  topic 
sitting  in  that  big  chair  and  facing  the  rest.  She 
will  talk  uninterruptedly  for  eight  minutes,  and 
seven  more  will  then  be  devoted  to  the  general 
discussion  of  her  subject.  Between  half-past  two 
and  half-past  five,  we  shall  have  time  for  twelve 
subjects." 

"But  the  food?"  ventured  Theodora. 

' '  We'll  just  eat  and  drink  as  we  listen.  Then  we 
won't  waste  any  time.  That's  why  I  had  every- 
thing brought  out  here  beforehand.  There  come 
some  of  our  guests  now.  I  asked  them  to  be  punc- 
tual." 

Though  very  little  time  was  wasted  over  the  in- 
troductions, no  better  means  than  that  series  of 
topics  could  have  been  devised  for  revealing  to 
Theodora  the  minds  and  characters  of  her  new 
acquaintances. 

She  herself  drew  the  slip  numbered  "one,"  and 
it  bore  the  single  word  "husbands."  This  pro- 
duced some  discussion  among  those  guests  who 
happened  to  be  standing  near  her,  slips  in  hand, 
waiting  to  take  their  seats. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  225 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  have 
Miss  Winthrop  change  topics  with  someone?" 
asked  a  certain  Mrs.  Methune.  (She,  it  was, 
whose  baby  had  been  farmed  out  that  first  morn- 
ing that  Theodora  had  spent  in  Hillcrest.  The 
girl  wondered  who  had  it  this  afternoon.) 

"Why?"  demanded  the  hostess. 

"Well,  all  the  rest  of  us  are  married,  and  she 
isn't." 

Mrs.  Felton  gave  the  question  her  concentrated 
consideration.  "No,"  she  finally  decided,  "it  is 
better  as  it  is.  Should  any  of  us  discuss  that  sub- 
ject, we  should  inevitably  be  biassed  by  the 
thought  of  our  own  particular  husband.  Miss 
Winthrop  can  handle  it  from  an  entirely  imper- 
sonal standpoint." 

"But,"  laughed  Theodora,  "I  know  very  few 
husbands,  and — as  it  happens — none  intimately. 
My  mother  and  aunt  are  widows.  Both  my  girl 
cousins  were  still  unmarried  when  I  left  home. 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  with  whom  I  went  to  live,  was 
another  widow.  And  your  husband"  (turning  to 
Mrs.  Felton),  "I've  scarcely  seen." 

"  So  much  the  better.  The  theoretic  standpoint 
is  what  we  want.  The  sordid  material  side  mat- 
ters very  little." 

Accordingly,  Theodora  sat  down  in  the  big  chair 
and  faced  ten  women  whom  she  had  barely  met. 
She  was  a  little  embarrassed,  but  there  was  no 
escape.  She  must  simply  do  her  best. 

IS 


226  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"I  think  my  first  requirement  in  a  husband," 
she  announced,  "would  be  that  his  will  should 
dominate  mine." 

This  was  a  bomb.  Immediate  disapproval  was 
written  large  on  the  face  of  every  listener.  There 
were  some  pursed  mouths,  some  murmurs  of  pro- 
tests, some  whispers  about  "the  Oriental  idea"; 
but  Mrs.  Felton,  sitting  with  watch  in  hand,  raised 
a  warning  finger. 

"Don't  interrupt,  ladies,"  she  begged.  "Make 
mental  notes  and  reserve  your  comments,  if  you 
please,  till  Miss  Winthrop  has  had  her  full  eight 
minutes." 

But  as  it  happened,  Theodora  didn't  want  them 
and  couldn't  use  them.  She  struggled  on  for  four 
or  five,  and  was  then  forced  to  confess  that  she 
had  no  more  to  say.  It  was  with  the  pleasing  con- 
sciousness of  conspicuous  failure  that  she  resigned 
her  seat  of  honour  to  the  next  comer. 

The  topics  that  followed  showed,  not  only  why 
"husbands"  were  chosen  as  the  small  end  of  the 
opening  wedge,  but  the  pronounced  and  uniform 
views  of  the  women  who  formed  the  party.  They 
were  all  feminists,  all  suffragists,  all  prohibitionists, 
many  of  them  socialists,  and  most  of  them  non- 
religionists. 

Suffrage  and  Prohibition  seemed  to  be  the  two 
vital  subjects.  When  it  became  known  that 
Theodora  was  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Delafield  Beeck- 
man,  the  important  fact  reinstated  her  immedi- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  227 

ately  in  public  favour.  Mrs.  Beeckman,  it  appeared, 
visited  militant  suffragists  in  jail,  sent  them  luxu- 
ries, and  occasionally  invited  them  to  stay  with  her 
on  their  release.  Her  name  was  spoken  with  an 
awe  which  struck  Theodora  as  incongruous  with 
the  pronounced  disapproval  which  all  her  present 
companions  pretended  to  feel  for  what  they  con- 
temptuously termed  "  society  women."  To  them, 
the  epithet  was  evidently  opprobrious;  yet  in  their 
eyes,  the  mere  fact  of  Mrs.  Beeckman's  patron- 
age, certainly  added  lustre  to  the  cause  which 
they  espoused  so  warmly.  And  if  it  were  not  be- 
cause of  her  money  and  position,  to  what  could  it 
be  attributed? 

One  topic  that  unloosed  an  avalanche  was  "  card- 
playing  mothers."  During  the  heated  and  one- 
sided discussion  which  followed,  it  became  revealed 
to  Theodora  that  there  were  two  distinct  elements 
in  Hillcrest  society — the  serious  and  the  frivolous. 

The  frivolous  women  played  cards,  and  they 
were  anathema.  Even  though  their  children 
might  be  well  cared  for,  their  homes  well  run,  and 
their  husbands  well  satisfied,  these  facts  carried 
no  weight  against  the  damning  charge  that  they 
wasted  their  time  in  foolishness,  thus  copying 
"society  women." 

The  serious  women  were  devoted  to  clubs. 
Clubs  were  their  meat  and  drink.  There  were 
suffrage  clubs,  and  temperance  clubs,  and  civic 
clubs,  and  literature  clubs,  and  clubs  for  every 


228  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

conceivable  serious  pursuit.  Books  seemed  never 
to  be  read  except  in  clubs.  Study  was  conducted 
in  clubs.  Everything  was  clubs! 

From  Theodora's  standpoint,  the  afternoon  was 
too  novel  to  be  boring;  but  she  frankly  confessed 
to  herself  that  she  wouldn't  crave  many  such. 
She'd  rather  sit  alone  with  a  good  book,  any  time. 

The  impression  that  she  seemed  chiefly  to  make, 
was  that  of  a  "great  laugher."  And  when  she 
came  to  realize  the  seriousness  with  which  these 
women  took  life,  she  saw  hov;  light  she  must  seem 
to  them.  Nevertheless,  she  knew  that  she  could 
do  many  things  which  they  would  have  been  glad 
to  be  able  to  do.  Not  one  of  them  could  speak 
any  living  tongue  save  her  own;  they  knew  some 
Latin,  and  even  a  smattering  of  Greek,  but  French 
was  a  sealed  book  to  them.  Not  one  of  them  could 
dance,  nor  play  the  piano,  nor  sing;  yet  the  fact 
that  they  all  wanted  their  children  to  do  these 
things  spoke  for  itself.  Though  they  loved  their 
children,  they  all  hated  cooking  and  sewing  and 
child-rearing.  There  wasn't,  however,  a  childless 
woman  among  them.  From  economy,  families 
were  limited  to  one  or  two — generally  two;  but  a 
childless  wife  would  have  been  an  object  of  pity. 
As  to  divorce,  it  was  like  a  fetid  breath  from  an- 
other clime,  a  tale  in  an  unknown  tongue.  Theo- 
dora's new  circle  was  mid- Victorian  in  its  attitude 
toward  marriage.  Marital  infelicity  was  certainly 
non-existent,  or  hidden. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  229 

Theodora  pondered  much  over  all  these  things 
as  the  summer  days  and  weeks  sped  by.  She  used 
to  sit  in  the  quiet  evenings,  looking  up  at  the  stars 
and  thinking  about  life.  She  was  puzzled  by  the 
different  standards  obtaining  in  different  places — 
even  among  people  of  equal  intelligence.  Every- 
one was  so  sure  of  being  right,  yet  it  was  obvious 
that  they  couldn't  all  be.  Was  there  such  a  thing 
as  a  fixed  standard  of  right  and  wrong,  Theodora 
wondered,  or  was  it  all  a  matter  of  environment, 
opinion,  and  heredity?  Here  within  thirty  miles 
of  each  other,  were  women  who  loathed  the  very 
idea  of  prohibition,  and  those  who  hailed  it  as  the 
world's  sole  hope  of  salvation;  women  who  de- 
manded the  chance  to  right  the  universe  with  their 
vote,  aijd  those  who  scoffed  at  equal  suffrage; 
women  who  divorced  their  husbands  as  lightly  as 
they  ordered  a  frock,  and  those  to  whom  the  mar- 
riage bond  was  unbreakable;  married  women  who 
regarded  lovers  as  one  of  their  perquisites,  and 
married  women  who  never  looked  at  men  other 
than  their  husbands;  women  to  whom  child-bear- 
ing was  a  task  to  be  shirked,  and  those  to  whom  it 
was  a  bounden  duty ;  women  to  whom  church-going 
was  a  privilege,  and  those  to  whom  it  was  a  super- 
stition and  a  joke.  They  couldn't  all  be  right — 
yet  who  could  prove  which  of  them  was  wrong? 

Hillcrest  husbands  were  an  unattractive  lot — 
at  least,  those  in  the  Felton  set  were.  They  had 
all  married  fire-extinguishers.  Sometimes  in  such 


N 

230  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

cases,  there  are  left-over  sparks — the  sort  of  sparks 
that  have  formed  the  despair  of  good  women  and 
the  harvest  of  bad  ones  from  time  immemorial. 
But  in  the  case  of  the  Hillcrest  men,  the  fires 
seemed  to  have  been  entirely  quenched.  Plodding 
and  tired,  dosed  with  feminism,  trained  to  expect  a 
minimum  of  comfort  and  care,  they  were  a  drab 
and  hungry  lot. 

Hillcrest  pleasures  were  as  serious  as  Hillcrest 
husbands.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  world  took  even 
its  responsibilities  lightly;  Hillcrest  took  even  its 
joys  heavily.  When  an  occasional  piece  at  the 
theatre  was  seen,  it  was  long  discussed  both  in  an- 
ticipation and  in  retrospect.  Club  papers  were 
written  about  it.  In  the  case  of  a  beautiful  out- 
door masque  which  Theodora  and  the  Feltons 
saw  together,  the  girl  enjoyed  the  piece  itself  with 
an  intensity  which  she  had  seldom  experienced; 
but  the  later  discussion  as  to  which  of  the  lines 
were  worthy  to  be  called  Shakespearean  and  which 
must  be  debarred  from  that  honour,  whether  the 
purpose  was  sufficiently  serious  to  warrant  the 
gorgeousness,  whether  or  not  the  simpler  form  of 
the  Greek  play  would  be  more  in  keeping  with  an 
outdoor  setting — almost  made  her  end  by  wish- 
ing that  the  thing  had  never  been  written.  Yet 
that  was  the  Felton  way  of  enjoying;  they  knew  no 
other.  All  frothy  shows  were  frowned  upon  as  a 
matter  of  course.  "Movies"  were  allowable,  pro- 
vided they  were  instructive. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  231 

At  the  end  of  June  when  the  Border  call  came  to 
the  men  of  the  United  States,  Theodora  was  privi- 
leged to  witness  the  selfishness  of  ultra- theorists. 
No  one  in  Hillcrest  dreamed  of  doing  anything  but 
criticize.  The  war  was  a  trap,  a  mess,  a  mistake, 
an  unnecessary  incubus. 

"But,"  cried  Theodora,  "even  if  it  were  all 
those  things  and  more,  someone  would  still  have  to 
put  it  through." 

Hillcrest  shook  its  wise  head  with  a  smile  of  sar- 
casm, and  went  on  to  show  how  the  entire  issue 
might  have  been  avoided.  It  was  a  trick  of  the 
hated  "plutocrats."  In  common  with  every  other 
ill,  it  might  be  laid  at  their  door. 

Ned  Charrington  rushed  at  once  to  the  colours. 
His  heart-broken  mother  never  raised  a  finger  in 
protest.  Mrs.  Winthrop  wrote  that  the  boy  had 
been  fine,  and  his  mother  magnificent.  After  his 
departure  she  had  turned  to  an  image  of  stone.  She 
scarcely  ate,  and  she  prowled  around  the  house  all 
night  long.  They  used  to  find  her  sitting  in  Ned's 
room,  fingering  his  possessions. 

This,  then,  was  the  woman  whom  Theodora  had 
dubbed  hard  and  cold!  This  was  the  boy  whom 
she  had  feared  was  a  weakling !  He  had  first  bro- 
ken himself  of  a  habit  which  has  mastered  many  a 
man,  and  had  then  given  all  that  he  had  to  give, 
at  his  country's  first  call.  Theodora  felt  humbled 
and  ashamed. 

Fortunately  for  her  peace  of  mind,  the  intensity 


232  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

of  the  situation  was  soon  relieved;  she  could  thus 
settle  down  to  her  daily  tasks  in  a  way  which  had 
been  impossible  while  everyone  was  still  talking 
of  poisoned  wells,  and  torrid  plains,  and  guerilla 
warfare,  and  the  fierce  cruelty  of  Mexican  bandits. 

Theodora  found  her  older  pupil,  Eugenia,  almost 
startlingly  clever.  The  child  was  unattractive, 
nervous,  irritable,  and  cold;  but  she  was  avid  for 
knowledge.  Her  brother  Walter  was  his  mother's 
darling;  he  was  handsome  and  lazy,  and  soon 
proved  to  be  the  sneak  he  looked.  Theodora 
never  went  into  the  village  without  meeting  him 
(he  was  not  permitted  there  and  invariably  lied 
about  it),  and  he  was  always  buying  food.  He 
gathered  up  small  sums  of  money  all  around  the 
house,  Mrs.  Felton  being  as  careless  of  that  as  of 
all  material  things.  Theodora's  own  purse  was 
rifled  of  various  small  amounts  until  she  took  to 
locking  it  up. 

During  her  quiet  communings  with  the  stars, 
the  girl  realized  that  the  beautiful  vague  thing 
which  had  seemed  to  blossom  in  her  heart  last 
winter,  was  now  withered  and  dead.  Whatever  it 
had  been,  it  had  disappeared — leaving  in  its  place 
a  dull  sort  of  void.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  much 
in  life  now,  except  a  stupid  round — an  endless 
procession  of  identical  days  piling  up  behind  and 
before  one.  There  was  no  secret  joy  in  one's 
heart,  no  unaccountable  spring  in  one's  step,  no 
mysterious  feel  of  hidden  future  happiness.  Of 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  233 

what  use  were  stars  and  moon  and  beauteous 
summer  nights?  One  merely  went  to  sleep  and 
forgot  them — awaking  in  the  morning  to  the  same 
uninteresting  outlook.  As  well  be  hopeless!  As 
well  be  old ! 

And  then,  early  in  October,  there  happened 
something  which  made  Theodora  look  longingly 
back  to  this  time  of  despised  quietude,  as  to  one  of 
blessed  peace  and  safety.  There  came  to  her  the 
first  telegram  she  had  ever  received.  It  was  from 
Aunt  Augusta,  and  it  read: 

"  Come  immediately.    Your  mother  very  ill." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  journey  home  was  a  nightmare.  Theo- 
dora carried  with  her  the  memory  of  devoted  kind- 
ness on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Felton — a  memory  that 
wiped  out  all  more  critical  ones  from  the  girl's  sad 
mind.  It  was  certainly  in  times  of  trouble  that 
Mrs.  Felton  showed  to  her  best  advantage. 

The  train  that  took  Theodora  homeward  crept 
at  a  snail's  pace;  each  stop  that  they  made  seemed 
like  an  hour.  The  girl  sat  tense  and  almost  mo- 
tionless, every  nerve  in  her  body  strained  to  the 
breaking  point.  A  year  had  passed  since  she  had 
seen  her  mother.  The  case  must  be  desperate, 
else  Aunt  Augusta  would  never  have  sent  that 
message.  What  did  the  home-coming  hold  in 
store?  Would  the  daughter  be  in  time?  How 
could  she  ever  have  stayed  away  so  long?  Yet  if 
she  hadn't,  how  could  she  have  hoped  to  improve 
the  family  fortunes?  But  after  all,  money  was 
nothing;  the  fact  remained  that  a  whole  year  of 
possible  companionship  had  been  wasted  in  separa- 
tion. It  could  never  be  made  up.  Over  and  over 
in  a  fevered  and  fruitless  round  did  Theodora's 
thoughts  travel. 

234 


Poor  Dear  Theodora  !  235 

She  arrived  unheralded  at  the  station  of  Waverly. 
How  changed  it  looked — how  small  and  shabby! 
The  streets,  too,  seemed  dark  and  narrow,  and  the 
house,  once  reached,  shared  in  the  general  semi- 
strange  aspect. 

Theodora  walked  in  without  ringing.  Just 
descending  the  stairs  came  her  aunt.  She  looked 
thin  and  ill,  and  she  moved  wearily. 

"Theodora!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  glad  I  am 
to  see  you !  You  certainly  lost  no  time  in  getting 
here- 

"No.  I  came  immediately.  Am  I  in  time? 
How  is  mother?" 

"She  is  in  great  pain,  but  holding  her  own." 

"Thank  God,"  breathed  the  girl  in  low  trem- 
bling tones.  "What  is  it,  Aunt  Augusta?" 

"Some  intestinal  trouble.  An  operation  is 
necessary,  but  she  absolutely  refused  to  have  it 
till  she  had  seen  you." 

"Will  it  be  a  very  serious  one?" 

"Very.  But  not  necessarily  a  fatal  one.  The 
doctors  say  that  her  general  health  is  good  enough 
to  give  her  an  excellent  chance  of  recovery.  With- 
out the  operation,  she  has  no  chance  at  all." 

"You've  had  more  than  one  doctor?" 

"Yes,  we've  had  a  specialist  from  the  city." 

"  Good.     When  can  I  go  to  mother?  " 

"At  once,  I  think.  She  has  hardly  been  able  to 
wait  to  see  you.  Of  course  you  must  be  very  quiet, 
and  you  mustn't  stay  long." 


236  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

But  once  inside  that  room,  Theodora  never  left 
it,  except  to  follow  the  doctor  into  the  corridor 
after  his  visits,  there  to  get  his  verdicts  and  direc- 
tions. Like  a  mute  she  sat  by  the  bed  or  knelt  on 
the  floor,  caressing  the  delicate  hand  that  lay  on 
the  counterpane;  at  nights  she  threw  herself,  fully 
dressed,  on  the  couch.  So  passed  the  three  days 
that  intervened  between  her  return  and  the  re- 
moval of  her  mother  to  the  hospital. 

Theodora's  impassioned  prayers  were  answered, 
and  the  operation  was  a  success.  In  all  her  after 
life  she  never  forgot  the  strain  of  those  awful  hours 
when  she  sat  awaiting  the  verdict,  nor  the  heav- 
enly relief  when  it  proved  to  be  favourable.  Such 
hours  belittle  most  others  that  fall  to  human  ex- 
perience. 

Then  there  began  a  strange  new  routine  for 
Theodora.  As  soon  as  the  physicians  and  nurses 
found  what  an  excellent  sick-room  companion  she 
was,  and  how  her  presence  comforted  the  patient, 
the  girl  was  given  permission  to  spend  every 
day  with  her  mother.  The  hospital  was  some 
two  miles  from  Waverly,  not  far  from  the  colony 
of  recently  built  newly  rich  palaces.  Theodora 
walked  out  every  morning  directly  after  breakfast, 
and  returned  at  dusk.  All  day  long  she  sat  in  the 
sick-room,  reading  aloud,  chatting,  or  merely  lend- 
ing the  comfort  of  her  silent  presence.  On  her 
walks  to  and  fro,  she  did  much  thinking.  Second 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  237 

only  to  her  great  thankfulness  came  the  haunting 
thought  of  money.  What  would  they  have  done  had 
she  not  saved  some?  What  a  blessing  it  had  been 
to  be  able  to  assume  the  expenses  and  to  reassure 
her  mother  on  the  subject!  Mrs.  Winthrop  was 
never  even  to  guess  the  size  of  the  bills. 

But  suppose,  thought  Theodora,  just  suppose 
that  one  more  sickness  should  fall  to  their  lot! 
Where,  then,  would  the  money  be  found?  Like 
poor  Ned,  she  became  obsessed  by  the  subject. 
To  say  the  truth,  her  problem  was  no  easy  one. 
She  must  hereafter  spend  her  life  by  her  mother's 
side.  She  must  materially  augment  their  small  in- 
come. And  there  was  no  possible  way  to  earn 
money  in  Waverly. 

Nurses  made  good  wages,  but  they  couldn't  live 
at  home  and  their  course  of  preparation  took  three 
full  years.  Also,  it  seemed  to  Theodora  that  their 
life  was  a  strange  one — useful,  yet  a  life  apart. 
A  career  as  nurse  certainly  would  not  fit  her  case; 
her  riddle  remained  still  unanswered  when  arrived 
the  joyful  day  on  which  Mrs.  Winthrop  returned 
home. 

Theodora  immediately  installed  herself  as  nurse, 
never  leaving  the  house  except  for  a  brisk  walk  each 
afternoon.  One  day — a  heavenly  autumn  day — 
she  had  walked  toward  the  hospital  and  beyond  it. 
Coming  to  a  lonely  stretch  of  road,  she  decided  to 
go  no  farther  and  turned  her  face  toward  home. 
But  she  hadn't  gone  a  dozen  steps  when  her  foot 


238  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

twisted  under  her  and  she  came  down  in  a  sudden 
heap — red-hot  pains  shooting  from  ankle  to  knee. 
She  knew  at  once  what  had  happened:  she  had 
sprained  her  ankle. 

She  was  out  of  sight  and  call.  The  effort  to 
walk  almost  made  her  faint,  and  she  certainly 
couldn't  crawl  three  and  a  half  miles.  In  addition 
to  all  else,  the  sun  was  slipping  away  with  appalling 
rapidity. 

What  was  she  to  do?  She  crawled  a  bit  and 
limped  a  bit,  and  then  sank  down  in  despair. 

Suddenly,  on  the  hard  road,  she  heard  the  dis- 
tant beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs.  The  sound  came 
rapidly  nearer,  till  presently  a  smart  little  trap 
drawn  by  a  high-stepping  mare  appeared  around 
a  curve  in  the  road.  Theodora  raised  herself  and 
began  to  call.  In  the  gathering  darkness  she  might 
not  be  seen. 

"Will  you  help  me? "  she  cried.  "I've  sprained 
an  ankle  and  I  can't  walk." 

The  mare  was  reined  sharply  up,  and  a  voice 
answered. 

"Did  someone  call?" 

"Yes,"  said  Theodora,  "I  did.  I've  hurt  my- 
self, and  I'm  three  miles  from  home." 

"By  Jove,  that's  tough.  How  lucky  that  I 
happened  along!"  A  man's  figure  sprang  to  the 
ground  and  approached  the  crouching  girl. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  she  began. 

"Trouble?     It's  no  trouble,  I  assure  you.     I'm 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  239 

only  too  glad  I  found  you.  This  is  a  nasty  bit  of 
lonely  road.  It's  a  long  chance  if  anyone  else 
comes  by  in  hours.  Can  you  stand?  Good!  .  .  . 
Lean  on  me.  We'll  get  to  the  trap  all  right.  The 
confounded  thing  is  so  high  it's  going  to  be  a 
bad  climb  for  you.  .  .  .  Would  you  let  me  lift 
you?  That's  right.  Take  your  time  now — don't 
hurry.  Put  your  knee  on  that  first  step  and  bal- 
ance yourself  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  Now,  I  have 
you.  You  see,  it  was  simply  no  trouble  at  all. 
.  .  .  The  mare  behaved  like  an  angel,  didn't 
she?  She  can  be  a  tricky  brute  when  she  wants  to. 
.  .  .  Now,  where  am  I  to  take  you?" 

Theodora  told  him  where  she  lived.  "I'm 
afraid  it  will  be  awfully  out  of  your  way,"  she 
added. 

"Scarcely  a  step.  The  mare  needs  a  chance  to 
stretch  her  legs  anyhow.  Our  place  is  right  along 
here,  though  I  don't  come  down  to  it  once  in  a 
year  of  blue  moons.  Waverly's  a  bit  of  a  dead 
hole,  don't  you  think?" 

"I  certainly  do." 

"  I  don't  know  what  ever  induced  my  old  man  to 
build  here.  Just  a  fad,  I  fancy,  and  a  bit  of  amuse- 
ment. ...  Is  your  foot  fairly  comfortable 
now,  Miss— 

"Winthrop.     My  name  is  Winthrop." 

"And  mine  is  Gerald  Wyatt." 

Theodora  recognized  it  instantly  as  one  that  she 
knew  by  hearsay.  Mr.  Wyatt,  senior,  had  been  the 


240  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

pioneer  builder  in  the  millionaire  colony,  and  his 
home  was  said  to  be  more  glaring,  more  lavishly 
atrocious,  than  any  other  there.  He  was  the  spe- 
cial, though  unknown,  detestation  of  the  Misses 
Duncan,  in  that  they  held  him  responsible  for  in- 
vading Waverly  sanctity  and  debauching  Waverly 
standards.  And  here  sat  she,  Theodora  Winthrop, 
born  to  the  shabby  purple,  vestal  virgin  of  the 
inner  sanctuary  of  cold  inaccessibility,  hobnobbing 
with  the  Wyatt  heir  and  driving  by  his  side  through 
the  gloaming.  It  was  ludicrous — ludicrous,  but 
exceptionally  lucky  and  convenient ! 

At  her  own  home,  Mr.  Wyatt  lifted  the  girl  from 
the  cart  and  supported  her  to  the  threshold,  linger- 
ing till  her  ring  was  answered. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  think  not.  Thank  you  a  lot,  Miss  Win- 
throp, but  I'll  just  run  on  if  you're  sure  you're  all 
right?" 

"I'm  quite  all  right  and  I  can't  thank  you 
enough,  Mr.  Wyatt.  But  for  you,  I  don't  know 
what  I'd  ever  have  done.  My  family  will  be  so 
grateful  to  you.  But  I  hate  to  think  to  what  in- 
convenience I  have  put  you ! " 

Protesting  that  it  had  been  nothing  but  a  pleas- 
ure and  that  with  her  permission  he  would  inquire 
on  the  morrow  about  the  hurt  ankle,  the  man  said 
good-night  and  drove  off  in  the  darkness. 

He  was  back  at  eleven  the  next  morning.  Theo- 
dora, sitting  in  the  library  reading  to  her  mother, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  241 

saw  the  mail-cart  pull  up  at  the  door,  and  ordered 
the  servant  to  ask  Mr.  Wyatt  to  come  in.  He 
appeared  shortly,  his  hands  full  of  fruit  and  flowers. 

"Good-morning,"  he  cried  cheerily.  "How's 
the  foot?  All  bandaged  up ?  That's  good.  You 
saw  a  doctor,  of  course?" 

"Yes.  He  tells  me  it's  rather  a  bad  sprain.  My 
mother  wants  to  thank  you  for  your  great  kindness. 
Mother,  may  I  present  Mr.  Wyatt — my  rescuer  of 
last  evening?" 

After  the  introductions,  Mr.  Wyatt  delivered  his 
gifts.  "My  mother  thought  you  might  enjoy 
these  grapes  and  things,"  he  said  (they  were  superb 
black  Hamburgs).  "And  she  also  sent  you  these 
posies.  She's  rather  keen  on  flowers  herself,  and 
she  thought  you  might  be." 

He  was  a  pleasant -faced  fellow,  freshly  coloured 
and  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  much  too  tired-looking 
for  his  years — which  couldn't  have  exceeded 
twenty-six  or  seven.  His  clothes  were  exception- 
ally correct  and  noticeable;  in  fact,  he  would  have 
made  an  excellent  advertisement  for  a  tailor's 
establishment.  But  other  than  too  great  sartorial 
perfection,  there  was  nothing  to  criticize.  His 
manners  were  charming.  Mrs.  Winthrop  was  sur- 
prised. She  had  expected  a  cross  between  a 
Caliban  and  a  fop. 

Theodora  was  looking  especially  lovely  that 
morning.  The  pink  of  her  tea-gown  matched  the 
pink  of  her  velvety  cheeks,  her  eyes  were  deep  and 


242  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

starry  (they  had  grown  more  beautiful  of  late, 
reflecting  the  happiness  of  her  mother's  recovery), 
and  her  wonderful  hair  was  rolled  into  the  softest 
and  simplest  of  knots.  She  breathed  wholesome- 
ness  and  race. 

Now,  as  it  happened,  race  (being  the  thing  that 
he  lacked)  was  young  Mr.  Wyatt's  fetish.  The 
shabbiness  of  the  room  in  which  he  sat  worried 
him  not  at  all,  but  he  was  distinctly  impressed  by 
its  old  belongings — its  portraits  of  ancestors,  and 
what  not — and  by  its  two  occupants.  Mrs.  Win- 
throp,  faded  and  unfashionable  though  she  was, 
had  an  air  and  a  manner  for  which  his  own  ex- 
pensively adorned  mother  would  gladly  have  paid 
in  millions.  As  for  the  girl,  she  was  simply  a  peach. 
He  saw  her  plainly  now  for  the  first  time.  Last 
night  he  had  liked  the  outlines  of  her  figure,  her 
suppleness  when  he  lifted  her,  and  her  lovely  voice. 
This  morning  he  thought  her  entrancing. 

Though  breeding  (whether  in  women  or  animals) 
had  always  attracted  Gerald  Wyatt,  his  apprecia- 
tion of  wholesomeness  was  recent.  It  was  the 
result  of  an  over-hectic  experience  through  which  he 
had  just  passed,  and  from  which  he  had  been  res- 
cued by  the  skin  of  his  teeth.  As  far  as  the  paths 
of  love  were  concerned,  life  held  few  new  sensations 
for  this  young  man.  He  had  been  lover,  suitor, 
fiance,  co-respondent — in  short,  everything  but 
husband.  Just  at  present  he  was  sated,  he  was 
disgusted,  and  he  was  keeping  his  head  low — for  he 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  243 

had  been  more  than  a  little  frightened.  But  even 
though  in  temporary  hiding,  he  had  no  desire  to 
dispense  entirely  with  charming  female  society. 
He  looked  upon  Theodora  as  a  godsend. 

He  spent  the  balance  of  the  morning  and  re- 
turned the  next  day.  Soon,  he  was  there  most  of 
the  time.  He  had  nothing  else  to  do,  and  neither 
had  Theodora.  She  grew  to  look  forward  to  his 
comings,  and  to  miss  him  sadly  on  those  rare  days 
when  he  ran  up  to  town  on  an  errand  and  she  thus 
failed  to  see  him.  He  showered  her  with  the  sort 
of  things  that  girls  may  accept — books,  flowers, 
candy,  fruit,  magazines,  and  new  music  (he  was 
crazy  about  music,  and  Theodora  played  to  him 
by  the  hour) .  He  never  made  a  mistake  in  taste, 
and  he  was  always  perfectly  charming. 

Whenever  the  weather  was  good  (it  was  Novem- 
ber by  now,  and  uncertain),  he  took  Mrs.  Winthrop 
and  Theodora  out  motoring.  These  trips  did  the 
elder  woman  so  much  good  that  the  doctor  said  he 
wished  she  could  have  a  few  months  South — they 
would  be  so  sure  to  set  her  up.  Theodora  wished 
it  too,  with  an  intensity  that  was  an  ache.  Her  old 
money  worries  returned  in  fits,  and  she  prayed 
every  night  and  morning  for  a  solution  of  her 
troubles. 

What  Aunt  Augusta  thought  of  the  new  visitor 
the  girl  never  asked,  and  Aunt  Augusta  never  told. 
She  absented  herself  studiously  from  the  library, 
but  she  also  refrained  from  comment.  Theodora 


244  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

had  a  shrewd  idea  that  her  mother  was  a  sort  of  go- 
between,  that  she  occupied  herself  with  telling  her 
sister  how  surprisingly  nice  this  young  man  really 
was.  At  all  events,  the  subject  was  never  men- 
tioned in  Theodora's  hearing,  though  it  was  as  con- 
spicuous by  its  absence  as  it  could  possibly  have 
been  by  its  presence. 

Meta  was  rarely  at  home  except  to  attend  to  her 
duties.  The  moment  they  were  finished,  she  was 
off  to  see  Elise — whose  house  she  was  now  running. 
Elise,  herself,  was  spending  her  time  in  tea-gowns, 
cursing  the  fate  that  had  overtaken  her.  Some- 
time in  December  she  was  to  become  a  most  un- 
willing mother.  Meta  took  charge  of  her  house- 
keeping and  listened  to  her  railings — Meta,  who  in 
Elise's  shoes  would  have  been  in  a  seventh  heaven 
of  delight !  And  the  man  who  had  chosen  between 
them  was  a  serious,  home-loving,  child-loving  soul. 
They  say  that  physical  beauty  is  not  a  vital  de- 
termining factor  in  life,  but  experience  hardly  bears 
out  the  claim. 

The  degrees  by  which  friendship  slips  into  court- 
ship are  too  fine  to  dissect,  too  familiar  to  need 
description.  Long  before  Christmas,  Theodora 
was  conscious  that  she  was  being  courted — whether 
seriously  or  not,  she  could  not  determine.  With  a 
woman's  intuition,  she  realized  that  Gerald  Wyatt 
was  an  adept  whose  skill  bespoke  long  practice. 
Long  practice,  and  still  a  bachelor!  "He's  prob- 
ably just  amusing  himself  with  a  flirtation," 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  245 

thought  the  wise  Theodora,  "but  it's  certainly 
interesting." 

As  to  the  young  man  himself,  he  was  debating 
the  matter  in  perfectly  cold  blood.  One  did  not, 
of  course,  entangle  oneself  permanently  with  every 
charming  girl  one  met;  one  kept  oneself  free  for 
the  next — for  if  Gerald  Wyatt  had  learned  any- 
thing in  the  course  of  a  very  busy  life,  it  was  that 
the  world  is  full  of  lovely  women,  and  that  the 
fever  they  produce  in  a  man's  veins  is  certainly 
evanescent.  On  the  other  hand,  a  chap  must 
marry  sometime — particularly  one  who  is  the  only 
heir  to  a  name  and  a  fortune.  Marriage  wasn't 
necessarily  a  cessation  of  gallantry  to  all  charmers 
save  one .  And  the  old  man  was  so  terribly  anxious 
for  it.  Well  trained  as  he  was  to  expect  the  sort 
of  jars  which  his  son  was  constantly  giving  him, 
the  fact  remained  that  Mr.  Wyatt,  senior,  had  been 
unusually  cut  up  over  this  last  affair.  He  had 
vowed  that  he  was  done.  Marriage  with  a  desir- 
able girl  would  once  more  reduce  him  to  plaster  in 
his  son's  hands.  The  thing  for  which  the  parental 
Wyatt  yearned  was  grandchildren.  He  longed 
to  see  them  trotting  around  that  huge  palace  of 
his,  bearing  his  name  to  another  generation.  And 
as  these  grandchildren  would  get  their  fortune 
from  their  father,  so  must  they  get  their  blood 
from  their  mother.  On  that  one  point  Gerald 
Wyatt  and  his  father  were  agreed. 

This  excellent  philosophy  formed  the  cool  part 


246  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

of  Gerald's  cogitations.  The  warm  part  was  sup- 
plied by  Theodora  herself.  She  was  certainly 
lovely.  He  had  seen  plenty  of  women  he  wanted 
as  much,  but  never  one  that  he  wanted  as  much  for 
his  wife. 

There  came  the  day  when  he  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  He  put  his  question  with  few  tremors,  and 
was  distinctly  nettled  at  her  hesitation.  Finally 
he  extracted  the  cause.  She  wasn't  sure  that  she 
cared  enough  for  him.  She  didn't  believe  she  was 
the  kind  of  woman  who  could  love  a  man  madly. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  said  the  expe- 
rienced swain.  "I'll  take  the  risks.  I  know  that 
you  are." 

"How  do  you  know  it?" 

"Oh,  by  your  eyes,  and  your  movements,  and 
the  way  your  head  is  set — by  lots  of  things  that 
I  can't  explain  to  you.  I  don't  say  you'd  ever  be 
a  man-eater,  but  I  do  say  that  the  man  you  love 
will  have  no  kick  coming  to  him." 

"Then,"  said  Theodora  almost  sadly,  "I'm 
afraid  I  don't  love  you.  I  like  you  awfully,  I'm 
devoted  to  you  as  a  friend,  and  I'd  miss  you  ter- 
ribly if  you  went  away  from  me.  But  that  isn't 
enough  to  marry  on,  is  it?  I  thought  it  might  be, 
if  it  were  all  that  I  was  capable  of  feeling ;  but  you 
tell  me  that  I  can  love  intensely — and  I  certainly 
don't  love  you  that  way." 

"But  you  will.  Trust  me  for  that.  Look  here, 
Theodora,  it's  a  mighty  hard  thing  to  explain  to  a 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  247 

girl  like  you;  but  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about. 
There  are  women  who  never  love  till  after  they're 
loved.  They  love  in  response.  They  have  to  be 
wakened,  if  you  get  what  I  mean.  You're  that 
kind.  Most  clever  women  are,  unless  they  happen 
to  be  devils.  I  reason  it  out  this  way :  brains  hold 
passion  in  check  and  give  a  woman  something  else 
to  think  about — till  something  stronger  breaks 
that  check.  With  a  decent  girl,  the  only  person 
who  can  do  it  is  an  accepted  lover.  It's  con- 
foundedly hard  to  explain  when  I  have  to  be  so 
careful  what  I  say,  but  your  very  inexperience 
makes  you  doubt  your  power  of  loving — just  as  it 
makes  you  specially  desirable  to  me.  What  I  got 
too  easily,  another  chap  might  get  just  as  easily. 
Do  you  see?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  girl  in  rather  a 
daze.  "It  sounds  a  little  frightening  to  me." 

"Not  in  the  least.  That's  just  your  innocence. 
The  main  thing  is  that  I  know  that  I  can  make  you 
love  me.  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  take  the  risk, 
except  in  one  case — that  is,  if  you  are  in  love  with 
anyone  else.  You're  not,  are  you?" 

Theodora  hesitated  perceptibly  before  answer- 
ing. Then,  "no,"  she  said.  "No,  certainly  not." 

"Then  it's  all  right." 

"But  suppose  that  this  wonderful  love  that  you 
think  you  can  call  to  life  doesn't  come?" 

"You'll  still  be  free  to  break  your  engagement. 
An  engagement  isn't  a  marriage.  But  I  have  no 

\ 


248  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

fears  on  that  head.  You  won't  want  to.  I  know 
your  type.  All  you  need  is  to  have  your  eyes 
opened.  It's  my  luck  that  I  happen  to  be  the  one 
to  do  it." 

It  wasn't  in  the  least  like  what  Theodora  had 
imagined  a  proposal  of  marriage  would  be.  Al- 
though the  man  was  certainly  in  earnest,  it  sounded 
more  like  a  pathological  discussion.  Then  there 
suddenly  flashed  over  Theodora  the  memory  of 
those  old  puzzles  of  hers — how  it  was  that  Elise, 
with  no  more  experience  than  her  cousin  and 
but  little  more  beauty — could  always  make  men 
aware  of  her,  could  always  understand  them  and 
get  what  she  wanted  from  them.  Perhaps  this 
was  the  answer ;  perhaps  Elise  knew  all  these  things 
innately.  That  was  what  they  called  sex-con- 
sciousness, she  supposed. 

But  she  couldn't  make  her  momentous  decision 
quickly.  She  must  have  time  to  think  it  all  out. 
In  addition,  there  was  one  other  important  matter 
to  discuss. 

' '  There's  another  thing, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  couldn't 
leave  my  mother.  There  are  just  the  two  of  us, 
you  know." 

Gerald  took  this  lightly.  "That's  all  right," 
he  said  easily.  "She  can  be  with  us  as  much  as 
you  like — live  with  us  permanently  if  you  choose. 
The  governor  will  undoubtedly  give  us  a  couple 
of  places — town  and  country,  you  know — and  she 
can  always  have  her  own  rooms ' 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  249 

"You're  certainly  an  angel,"  cried  Theodora 
gratefully.  The  praise  was  like  wine  to  her  lover. 
He  became  quite  self-consciously  generous. 

"We'd  probably  travel  quite  a  bit,"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  she'd  like  a  jaunt  with  us,  now  and 
again  ?  I'm  very  strong  for  your  mother,  you  know. ' ' 

Theodora  suddenly  put  out  her  hand,  shyly  but 
warmly.  The  man  seized  it  and  carried  it  to  his 
lips.  And  that,  she  certainly  did  not  dislike. 

"Will  you  do  something  wonderful  for  me?"  she 
besought.  "Will  you  give  me  a  day  to  think  this 
over?  And  will  you  go  now,  without  touching  me 
at  all?" 

He  was  wise  enough  to  humour  her. 

She  thought  it  out,  shut  and  locked  in  her  own 
room.  And  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  if 
Gerald  were  right,  if  her  love  would  indeed  awaken 
to  his  call,  then  she  was  a  very  lucky  girl.  Where 
else  could  she  so  hope  to  find  an  answer  to  her 
problems — even  to  her  prayers  ?  What  other  man 
would  be  so  wonderful  about  her  mother?  To 
think  that  she  would  be  able  to  give  that  mother 
every  luxury  in  the  world,  and  that  they  need 
never  again  be  separated !  It  was  almost  too  good 
to  be  true! 

Then,  too,  the  thing  was  merely  a  trial.  She 
wasn't  going  to  get  married  yet — just  engaged. 
If  everything  didn't  go  right  and  according  to 
Gerald's  promise,  she  would  still  be  as  free  as  air. 


250  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

The  next  day  Gerald  Wyatt  received  the  answer 
that  he  expected.  And  the  week  before  Christmas, 
three  important  things  happened  in  the  Charring- 
ton-Winthrop  household:  Ned  came  home  from 
the  Border  looking  simply  magnificent ;  Elise  gave 
birth  to  a  little  son;  and  Theodora's  engagement 
was  announced. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  wrote  Aunt  Augusta  to  the 
Misses  Duncan,  "of  poor  dear  Theodora's  latest 
remarkable  whim.  She  has  engaged  herself  to  the 
son  of  the  man  who  built  the  first  of  those  awful 
houses — Mr.  Wyatt.  My  dear  friends,  I  do  hope 
you  won't  be  too  shocked." 

That,  however,  was  Aunt  Augusta's  sole  diatribe. 
To  Theodora  herself  she  never  made  one  criticism. 
Ned  was  jubilant;  he  liked  Gerald,  and  he  talked 
openly  about  "Brownie's  luck,"  which  he  vowed 
she  richly  deserved.  Mrs.  Winthrop  was  too  de- 
lighted to  hide  her  pleasure;  she  knew  her  future 
son-in-law  quite  well  by  now,  and  she  certainly  saw 
nothing  in  him  to  criticize.  While  the  fact  re- 
mained that  no  one  could  really  deserve  Theodora, 
Gerald  was  a  dear  fellow  and  seemed  to  come  as 
near  it  as  anyone  could.  Elise,  of  course,  got  in 
her  fine  work  and  said  many  biting  things;  but 
then,  that  was  to  be  expected.  It  didn't  even 
ruffle  the  general  feeling  of  happiness. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ELISE  SEWALL  lay  on  a  couch,  fretting  peevishly 
over  the  unfairness  of  the  world. 

Here  was  she,  young  and  fond  of  life,  saddled 
with  a  baby  and  forced  to  listen  to  her  husband's 
constant  rhapsodies  on  the  subject.  Meta  was 
just  as  absurd.  To  hear  those  two,  one  would  sup- 
pose that  no  other  child  had  ever  been  born.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  a  man  and  an  old  maid  to  make 
such  fools  of  themselves — what  did  they  know  of 
the  pain  and  inconvenience  of  motherhood? 
There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  Elise  wouldn't 
do — she  wouldn't  be  a  hypocrite  and  feign  a  part 
in  the  general  ridiculous  rejoicing. 

Her  brother  Ned  was  another  thorn.  Ned  had 
always  had  the  soft  end  of  all  the  bargains.  All 
the  money  in  the  house  had  had  to  be  scraped  and 
saved  for  his  college  course;  he  visited  at  rich 
houses;  he  got  away  from  disgusting  one-horse 
Waverly.  In  answer  to  the  Border  call,  he  had 
gone  off  to  what  proved  to  be  a  perfect  cinch — no 
righting,  no  danger,  and  a  summer  of  travel !  Yet 
on  his  return,  he  must  needs  be  hailed  as  a  hero. 
And  now,  to  cap  it  all,  he  was  invited  to  spend  the 

251 


252  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Christmas  holidays  at  a  beautiful  New  York  home, 
and  his  engagement  to  the  only  daughter  of  the 
house  was  to  be  announced.  Theodora  knew  the 
girl — Marjorie  Gary — and  said  she  was  lovely.  So 
there  was  Ned,  finely  fixed  for  life! 

But  most  irritating  of  all,  adding  insult  to  in- 
jury as  it  were — was  Theodora's  own  engagement. 
Nothing  but  the  purest  luck!  A  sprained  ankle 
on  a  lonely  road,  and  a  millionaire  fiance  as  the 
result!  Theodora,  the  girl  who  had  forgotten  all 
filial  duty  and  forsaken  her  poor  mother  in  order 
to  go  out  into  the  world  and  hunt  up  a  good  time, 
while  her  cousin  Elise  stayed  virtuously  at  home 
and  got  the  mean  end  of  the  bargain!  Elise's 
husband  had  no  fortune  and  no  future,  except  a 
country  doctor's  practice;  Theodora's  would  be  a 
fashionable  idler  all  his  days,  would  give  his  wife 
everything,  would  take  her  everywhere!  But 
that  was  always  the  way.  .  .  .  Elise  hadn't 
met  her  cousin's  fiance  yet,  her  state  of  health 
having  prevented  that,  as  well  as  all  other  pleasant 
festivities;  but  she  had  seen  the  sapphire-and- 
diamond  engagement  ring,  and  the  superb  pend- 
ant that  had  been  Theodora's  Christmas  gift — 
jewels  fit  for  a  queen.  The  sly  Theodora  had  al- 
ways pretended  not  to  care  greatly  for  such  things, 
while  she,  Elise,  with  her  usual  honesty  which 
never  seemed  to  bring  her  any  reward,  had  frankly 
confessed  to  a  love  for  them. 

It  would  be  pleasant  wouldn't  it,  thought  Elise, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  253 

to  have  Theodora  down  here  at  Waverly  in  the 
summers,  living  in  a  palace  and  lording  it  over  her 
poverty-stricken  relatives?  Of  course  they'd  all 
kneel  down  and  worship  her  when  once  they  saw 
her  possessions — all,  that  is,  except  Elise;  she  was 
too  proud  to  cringe. 

Fortunately,  the  Waverly  palaces  were  closed 
now  for  the  winter,  so  there'd  be  no  flaunting  of 
Theodora's  cars  and  servants  under  the  family's 
nose  for  some  months  to  come;  that  was  one 
mercy.  But  on  the  other  hand,  Theodora  was  to 
go  off  in  a  day  or  two  to  make  a  little  visit  at  the 
Wyatts'  town  house,  and  to  be  presented  to  their 
intimates  at  a  huge  dinner.  Elise  had  never  been 
to  a  real  dinner  party  in  her  life.  One  didn't 
count  those  old-maid  affairs  at  the  Misses  Dun- 
can's. 

While  Elise  was  thus  amusing  herself  with  envy, 
malice,  and  all  uncharitableness,  Theodora  was  as 
busy  as  a  nailer  making  a  frock  for  the  announce- 
ment dinner.  She  had  gone  to  town  and  bought 
some  yards  of  heavy  pale  pink  satin,  as  delicate  in 
tint  as  the  inside  of  a  seashell.  With  no  embellish- 
ment save  a  real  lace  fichu  furnished  by  Mrs.  Win- 
throp,  and  a  velvety  artificial  rose,  the  dress  turned 
Theodora  into  a  rose  herself. 

She  was  a  little  nervous  over  the  approaching 
meeting  with  Gerald's  family.  "The  Mater,"  he 
had  told  her,  "is  something  of  a  fusser,  but  O.  K. 
when  you  really  know  her.  The  governor  has  to 


254  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

be  handled  with  gloves,  but  he'll  fall  for  you  all 
right.  Just  pet  him  up  a  bit  and  humour  him, 
and  you'll  own  him.  My  sister  Marguerite  has  the 
brains  of  the  family,  but  she'll  bite  your  head  off 
if  she  doesn't  happen  to  like  you.  She  drives  the 
old  lady  crazy.  She's  always  letting  out  the  truth 
about  things — just  to  be  devilish,  you  know.  My 
mother  likes  to  be  very  fashionable,  and  to  act  as 
if  she'd  always  been  rocked  in  gold  cradles  and 
driven  in  gold  coaches;  and  Marguerite  keeps  rub- 
bing it  in  about  the  way  things  used  to  be  before 
the  old  man  made  his  pile.  She  does  it  before 
everyone — she's  the  most  impertinent  little  devil 
you  ever  saw;  and  the  outsiders  enjoy  it,  for  of 
course  they  know  the  truth  anyhow.  But  the 
Mater  nearly  goes  crazy.  It's  one  continual  tussle 
between  those  two." 

"Is  she  pretty — your  sister?"  asked  Theodora. 
To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  not  tremendously  re- 
assured by  the  picture  her  lover  painted  of  his  home 
circle. 

"No,  not  in  the  least.  She's  the  sporty  type. 
Loves  horses,  rides  like  a  centaur,  drinks  like  a 
fish,  smokes  like  a  house  on  fire — you  know  the 
kind.  She's  thin  and  dark,  and  she  doesn't  make 
up  at  all — not  even  powder  on  her  nose.  The  old 
lady  powders  and  rouges  and  wears  a  pound  of 
false  hair.  She's  always  'reducing' — afraid  to 
eat  this,  or  that,  or  the  other  thing.  Beauty 
doctors  are  her  meat  and  drink;  she  must  spend 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  255 

thousands  a  year  on  them.  She's  crazy  to  have 
Marguerite  marry  a  title,  and  of  course  it  could 
easily  be  done;  the  governor's  got  money  enough 
to  buy  her  anything.  But  she's  so  darned  inde- 
pendent I  don't  know  how  it  will  all  turn  out. 
She  couldn't  love,  I'm  sure  of  that.  She's  as  hard 
as  nails,  and  has  been  all  her  life.  She  was  the 
most  disagreeable  child  that  ever  was  born." 

Theodora's  heart  was  failing  her  for  fear.  Here 
were  types  that  she  didn't  even  know.  She  would 
be  as  strange  to  them  as  they  to  her.  Probably 
they  wouldn't  like  her  at  all.  She  wished  devoutly 
that  the  visit  was  over. 

The  day  that  she  was  to  start,  Gerald  came  to 
luncheon  and  drove  her  in  to  town  in  the  limousine. 
Orchids  were  in  the  hanging  vase,  a  sable-lined 
coat  was  on  Gerald's  back,  and  the  chauffeur  was 
muffled  in  furs;  and  Theodora,  the  heroine  of  the 
occasion,  wore  a  cheap  ready-made  suit,  and  car- 
ried in  her  small  trunk  two  simple  frocks  of  home 
manufacture.  If  it  be  true  that  life  is  made  up  of 
contrasts,  there  must  have  been  life  material  in 
that  car. 

They  stopped  eventually  in  front  of  a  huge  new 
house;  it  was  of  grey  stone,  battlemented  and  tur- 
retted  like  a  mediaeval  castle.  The  butler  who 
admitted  them  wore  white  kid  gloves;  he  handed 
them  over  immediately  to  a  footman  in  prune  liv- 
ery with  scarlet  facings.  This  impressive  person 
preceded  them  to  an  enormous  drawing-room 


256  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

where  Theodora  found  her  future  mother-in-law 
awaiting  her. 

Mrs.  Wyatt  was  of  a  suppressed  portliness  the 
result  of  which  was  an  unbending  physical  stiffness. 
She  could  no  more  have  lifted  her  own  handkerchief 
from  the  floor  than  she  could  have  flown.  Her 
hands  were  white  and  pudgy,  and  they  simply 
blazed  with  huge  gems.  Her  flabby  cheeks 
bloomed  with  a  girlish  colour  that  never  varied,  and 
her  grey  head  was  a  miracle  of  the  hairdresser's 
art.  Her  black-and-silver  tea-gown  was  of  a  re- 
vealing frankness;  it  left  the  neck  and  bust  bare, 
and  sheathed  the  rest  of  the  body  like  a  close-fit- 
ting glove.  As  to  her  real  face,  one  never  got  that 
far — the  accessories  were  too  blatant. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  greeted,  holding  out  one  of 
the  scintillating  hands,  "we're  very  happy  to  wel- 
come you,  I'm  sure."  Theodora  printed  a  light 
and  careful  kiss  on  the  tinted  cheek  turned  to  re- 
ceive it,  and  Mrs.  Wyatt  continued:  "My  son 
has  told  us  that  we  had  a  great  pleasure  in  store, 
and  I  can  see  that  he  was  right."  Then  to  the 
waiting  servant,  "  Tell  your  master  that  the  young 
lady  is  here."  Theodora  couldn't  help  noting  the 
gaucherie,  but  it  was  surely  unimportant.  What 
difference  did  it  make  whether  Mrs.  Wyatt  said 
"Miss  Winthrop,"  or  "the  young  lady"?  What 
did  such  things  matter  anyhow?  They  were  mere 
conventions. 

Mr.  Wyatt  soon  appeared,  and  was  presented  to 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  257 

the  young  lady.  His  portliness,  unlike  his  wife's, 
was  far  from  restrained.  His  figure  ran  to  stomach 
and  his  fat  stubby  hands  were  covered  with  a  thick 
growth  of  reddish  hair.  Gerald  inherited  his 
blondness  from  his  father.  Mr.  Wyatt,  senior, 
however,  lacked  his  son's  gift  at  light  conversation. 
"Well,  well,"  he  said,  and  pinched  Theodora's 
cheek.  "Well,  well!  Here  we  are,  are  we?  So 
you're  going  to  take  that  son  of  mine  in  charge, 
young  lady?  I  wish  you  luck  with  him.  He 
needs  a  heavy  hand — a  heavy  hand." 

"Now,  Poppa,"  warned  his  spouse  (she  always 
addressed  him  either  as  "Poppa"  or  as  "R.  S." — 
his  name  being  Richard  Smith  Wyatt).  "Our 
son  went  to  Harvard,"  continued  the  fond  mother, 
turning  to  Theodora,  "and  the  stylish  young  men 
at  Harvard  are  never  very  quiet  I  guess.  Poppa's 
getting  old.  He  forgets  he  was  young  once." 

"I  was  never  too  young  to  work,"  announced 
Paterfamilias.  "I  went  to  work  when  I  was 
twelve,  Miss,  and  I  ain't  ashamed  of  it." 

"I  think  it  was  splendid,"  agreed  Theodora. 
Then  rather  shyly,  "And  you're  going  to  call  me 
Theodora,  aren't  you?" 

Two  men-servants  had  been  busying  themselves 
over  a  tea-table  in  the  rear  of  the  room ;  one  of  them 
now  approached  Theodora  with  a  tray.  Just  as 
she  served  herself,  a  young  woman  in  riding  clothes 
entered  and  was  introduced  as  Miss  Marguerite 
Wyatt.  Acknowledging  the  presence  of  her  fu- 


258  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

ture  sister-in-law  with  the  barest  of  nods,  the 
daughter  of  the  house  walked  to  the  table  and 
mixed  herself  a  highball.  With  this,  she  enjoyed 
a  cigarette,  and  then  elected  to  try  a  cup  of  tea, 
as  she  had  a  "rotten  headache."  After  one  bare 
mouthful  of  the  tea,  she  turned  to  her  mother  in 
disgust. 

"That's  the  vilest  dope  I  ever  tasted,"  she  re- 
marked. "Where,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  holy, 
did  you  pick  it  up  ? " 

"It  ought  to  be  all  right,"  contended  Mrs.  Wy- 
att.  "It  costs  seven  dollars  a  pound,  and  it's 
exactly  what  Mrs.  Hamilton  Woods  always  uses." 

At  this,  Marguerite  honoured  Theodora  with 
her  first  direct  remark. 

"We  don't  know  Mrs.  Hamilton  Woods,"  she 
said,  "but  we  know  all  about  her  tea." 

This  had  the  desired  effect.  Mrs.  Wyatt 
jumped  cumbrously  into  the  ring. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  on  the  same  hospital  committees 
with  Mrs.  Woods,"  she  cried.  "And  the  other 
day  when  I  asked  her  a  question,  she  answered  as 
polite  as  anything." 

"And  cut  you  the  next  day,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  Midge,"  exclaimed  her  brother. 
"Theodora's  going  to  hear  enough  wrangles  in  this 
house  without  starting  in  before  she's  been  here  a 
half-hour." 

Theodora  was  glad  when  the  time  came  for  her 
to  go  to  her  room  and  rest  for  the  approaching 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  259 

festivity.  She  felt  depressed,  and  as  the  guest  of 
honour  she  would  naturally  be  expected  to  sparkle. 
No  sooner  was  she  safely  shut  in  the  luxurious 
suite  appointed  to  her  use  than  Mrs.  Wyatt 
turned  to  her  son.  She  was  evidently  in  some  per- 
turbation. 

"She's  lovely,  Gerald,"  she  said.  "I  wasn't 
expecting  such  a  beauty.  But  that  was  certainly 
an  awful  suit  she  had  on.  It  couldn't  have  cost  a 
cent  over  thirty  dollars.  I  do  hope  she's  got  some- 
thing better  for  tonight.  The  Arments  are  coming 
and  it's  the  first  time  I've  ever  been  able  to  get 
them.  Mrs.  Arment's  such  a  dresser,  and  she 
always  notices  clothes  so  much — 

"And  she  looks  like  a  cook,  out  on  a  holiday," 
interrupted  Gerald  hotly.  "And  so  will  all  of  the 
rest  of  your  guests  when  they  get  near  Theodora. 
Can't  you  see  what  she  is?  She  has  race  written 
all  over  her — 

"Well,  of  course,  Gerald.     I  know  that." 

"What  more  do  you  want,  then?  When  Theo- 
dora is  my  wife,  she'll  dress  with  the  best  of  them. 
In  the  meantime  she  has  what  all  the  money  in 
the  world  can't  buy.  She  makes  Midge  look  like 
a  barmaid— 

"Now,  Gerald,  your  sister  has  a  style  of  her  own. 
You  know  Count  Petrezelli  always  said  so.  I 
don't  think  it's  nice  to  talk  that  way  about  your 
own  family— 

' '  Who  began  it,  I'd  like  to  know ?     I  never  come 


260  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

into  this  house  for  as  much  as  an  hour,  without 
running  into  a  row.  I'll  be  glad  enough  to  get  a 
home  of  my  own." 

Tears  brimmed  into  his  mother's  eyes.  She 
really  adored  this  good-looking  son  of  hers ;  but  her 
life  was  so  harassed  with  ambition,  and  the  rungs 
of  the  social  ladder  proved  so  disappointingly  slip- 
pery, that  she  was  always  tired,  generally  fearful, 
and  often  unhappy.  The  warmth  of  her  heart  was 
stifled  in  a  mad  quest  for  a  thing  which  she  cer- 
tainly wanted  far  more  for  her  children  and  grand- 
children than  for  herself,  and  which  she  felt  she 
had  the  price  to  buy.  Like  most  of  the  unhappi- 
ness  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Wyatt's  came  from  kicking 
against  the  pricks — fighting  age,  fighting  fat,  fight- 
ing facts,  fighting  snubs — which  latter  she  would 
never  have  received  had  she  not  laid  herself  open 
to  them.  Nevertheless,  she  was  learning  every 
day  of  her  life;  and  just  as  surely  as  money  talks 
and  satisfaction  is  death  to  progress,  her  grand- 
children would  one  day  inherit  that  earth  which 
she  craved  for  them. 

"Theodora  is  very  handsome,  certainly,"  she 
now  said,  and  Gerald  softened  instantly.  He 
really  had  a  very  charming  disposition — which  is 
by  no  means  the  same  as  saying  that  he  had  a 
charming  character.  His  sister  reversed  this  order ; 
her  character  was  far  better  than  her  disposition. 

"Theodora's  hand-in-glove  with  all  the  nobs 
you'd  give  your  head  to  know,"  said  Gerald. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  261 

"She  knows  Mrs.  Donald  Neilson,  and  those  old 
maid  Duncans  who  are  such  sharks  about  keeping 
the  Assembly  lists  down,  and  lots  of  the  people  in 
the  New  York  crowd  that  makes  things  hum  at 
Palm  Beach.  She  could  dress  in  calico — whatever 
that  may  be — and  still  go  anywhere,  believe  me!" 

Mr.  Wyatt,  senior,  having  just  returned  to  the 
room,  now  put  in  a  word. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "And  she'll  bear  fine  children. 
I'll  bet  she  won't  side-step  her  duties  in  that  line, 
either." 

All  of  which  comforted  Mrs.  Wyatt  no  little! 

As  the  dinner  guests  gathered,  it  would  have 
taken  no  very  keen  eye  to  realize  that  Theodora 
was  in  a  class  apart.  Mrs.  Wyatt  wore  a  gown 
that  had  come  from  Paquin,  and  that  had  cost  six 
hundred  dollars.  In  fact,  before  the  evening  ended 
Theodora  knew  the  maker  and  the  price  of  nearly 
every  costume  in  the  room.  The  information  was 
always  dropped  as  a  negligible  aside,  but  it  was  in- 
variably forthcoming.  Marguerite  was  actually 
weird  in  a  sheath-like  flame-coloured  gown  with  a 
big  green  parrot  perched  on  one  shoulder.  Her 
sleek  dark  hair  lay  so  close  as  to  look  as  though  it 
had  been  painted  on  her  skull,  and  huge  gold  hoops 
swung  from  the  lobes  of  her  invisible  ears.  Theo- 
dora was  forced  to  admit  that  Marguerite  under- 
stood her  own  style.  Conventionally  garbed,  she 
would  have  been  merely  a  homely  and  unnoticeable 


262  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

woman ;  in  the  clothes  that  she  affected,  she  looked 
like  a  tailor's  correct  model  in  the  mornings,  and 
like  a  Chinawoman  or  a  Hindoo  idol  in  the  even- 
ings. She  was  even  jolie-laide. 

Theodora  was  introduced,  not  only  as  the  coming 
daughter  of  the  house,  but  as  the  intimate  o:  the 
Neilson-Duncan  set.  Over  and  over  were  her 
references  given,  as  the  guests  gathered.  Judging 
from  the  sensation  they  produced,  their  insistence 
was  amply  warranted. 

The  dinner  and  the  service  were  ultra  elaborate 
and  expensive.  Everyone  drank  a  great  deal,  and 
toasts  were  the  order  of  the  day.  Mr.  Wyatt, 
rising  to  propose  one  to  the  coming  generation  of 
Wyatts,  was ' '  Poppa  "-ed  into  silence  by  his  spouse. 
In  spite  of  the  cut  of  her  gowns — a  concession  to  the 
demands  of  the  fashion — Mrs.  Wyatt  was  an  es- 
sentially modest  woman.  She  was  kept  on  the 
constant  qui  vive  to  intercept  the  jokes  of  her  hus- 
band and  the  frank  remarks  of  her  daughter — 
neither  of  whom  could  have  been  accused  of  over- 
modesty. 

All  the  women  wore  startling  decolletages;  they 
were  too  new  to  the  world  of  fashion  to  dare  to 
assert  their  own  opinions  in  the  face  of  the  names 
of  the  great  Parisian  couturi&res,  and  were  con- 
sequently hectored  into  purchasing  copies  of  gowns 
that  had  been  designed  for  famous  demi-mondaines 
— their  husbands  having  been  too  well  trained  to 
object.  Habits  here  were  as  modern  as  costumes. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  263 

Theodora  was  the  only  person  at  the  table  who  did 
not  smoke.  Somehow,  most  of  the  smoking  struck 
her  as  being  self-conscious. 

The  dinner  went  off  brilliantly,  as  did  also  the 
remainder  of  Theodora's  three-days  visit.  She 
had  never  before  had  so  much  gaiety  squeezed 
into  so  short  a  space  of  time.  Ere  she  left,  there 
arose  the  question  of  her  accompanying  the 
Wyatts  to  Palm  Beach  in  February. 

"We're  going  in  a  private  car,"  said  Mrs.  Wyatt. 
"You  really  must  come,  my  dear.  We  won't 
take  no  for  an  answer." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Wyatt,"  cried  the  girl,  "it  is  simply 
sweet  of  you  to  want  me !  I'd  love  to  go,  of  course ; 
but  I  really  couldn't  leave  my  mother  for  so  long 
a  time.  Since  her  sickness,  she  depends  particu- 
larly upon  me." 

' '  She  shall  come  too.  One  more  in  the  car  won't 
crowd  us." 

"Oh,  that's  lovely  of  you;  but  she  really 
couldn't."  (Not  only  did  Theodora  realize  that 
her  mother's  limited  wardrobe  would  never  war- 
rant the  trip,  but  she  knew  how  unhappy  Mrs. 
Winthrop  would  be  under  the  circumstances. 
Indeed,  with  each  passing  hour,  there  was  growing 
within  her  an  increasing  fear  as  to  the  amalgama- 
tion of  the  two  households.  "It  is  all  very  well," 
thought  the  wise  Theodora,  "to  say  that  one  mar- 
ries an  individual,  and  not  a  family.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  can't  be  done.  One  must  marry  family 


264  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

standards,  and  family  traits,  and  family  blood,  and 
the  choice  between  family  relationship  and  family 
jars.  One  must  also  realize  that  coming  genera- 
tions may  as  well  inherit  from  paternal  ancestors 
as  from  maternal."  Indeed,  as  Theodora  turned 
the  matter  over  in  her  mind,  marriage  appeared  to 
have  as  many  sides  as  a  well-cut  diamond,  and  as 
many  pitfalls  as  a  lawsuit.) 

But  when  the  girl  returned  home  with  her  invita- 
tion, her  mother  insisted  on  acceptance.  "It  is 
only  right,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  quite  well  again. 
A  month  will  soon  fly  away.  It  will  be  your  first 
chance  at  real  pleasure,  for  last  year  you  were 
working,  and  had  none  of  the  dances  and  gaieties 
that  are  the  natural  right  of  young  things  like  you." 

Theodora  could  hardly  explain  that  last  winter 
would  probably  outrank  this  as  a  gem  outranks 
paste;  so  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Wyatt  accepting  the 
invitation,  and  thereby  plunged  herself  into  an- 
other immediate  discussion.  Her  future  mother- 
in-law  insisted  on  presenting  her  with  an  elaborate 
outfit  for  the  trip.  In  this,  however,  she  was 
instantly  overruled — to  her  great  disappointment. 
Theodora  set  to  work  immediately  to  fashion  the 
simple  costumes  she  would  take — linen  skirts  and 
blouses  for  the  morning,  two  more  frocks  for  the 
evening,  some  self -trimmed  hats,  and  a  wrap  man- 
ufactured out  of  an  old  Paisley  shawl. 

One  day  in  late  January,  she  and  her  lover  were 
sitting  in  the  library  of  the  old  Waverly  house 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  265 

talking  over  the  coming  trip.  Gerald  had  just 
said  that  he  must  be  going  when  a  little  car  drove 
up  to  the  door,  and  Elise  got  out. 

"By  Jove,"  said  the  man,  "who  is  that  beauty 
coming  in  here?" 

Theodora  crossed  to  his  side.  "That  is  my 
cousin  Elise,"  she  answered.  "Mrs.  Sewall, 
you  know." 

"Not  the  one  who's  just  had  a  baby?" 

"Yes.    The  baby's  over  a  month  old  now." 

"Why,  she  looks  like  a  schoolgirl." 

"She's  two  years  older  than  I,"  responded  Theo- 
dora, and  at  that  moment  Elise  entered  and  Gerald 
was  presented. 

He  stayed  as  long  as  she  did,  which  was  after 
dark  fell.  Then  he  insisted  on  driving  her  home 
in  his  closed  car,  leaving  hers  for  her  husband  to 
fetch  later.  But  when  Theodora  next  saw  Gerald, 
he  never  as  much  as  mentioned  Elise;  so  she  sup- 
posed that  he  had  had  the  good  sense  to  be  dis- 
appointed on  closer  acquaintance. 

Some  few  days  later,  she  was  expecting  him 
again ;  but  as  she  sat  waiting,  a  boy  came  running 
up  from  the  station  with  a  telegram.  (The 
Waverly  house  did  not  afford  a  telephone,  to  the 
great  disgust  of  Theodora's  fiance.  Like  many 
another,  he  didn't  mind  the  stigma  of  poverty,  but 
he  heartily  detested  its  inconveniences.) 

The  telegram  was  from  him.  To  his  disappoint- 
ment he  found  himself  prevented  by  business  from 


266  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

leaving  town  that  afternoon,  but  he  would  cer- 
tainly see  Theodora  on  the  morrow.  So,  remem- 
bering having  heard  Meta  say  that  she  had  some 
wine  jelly  to  be  carried  over  to  Elise's,  Theodora 
offered  her  services  for  the  errand. 

She  took  a  long  walk  first,  and  was  stopped  by  a 
poor  woman  who  had  a  sick  baby.  Seeing  Theo- 
dora pass  her  door,  Mrs.  McCarty  sent  a  scurrying 
child  after  her.  "If  ye  do  be  passin'  by  Dr. 
Sewall's,  Miss  Theodora  dear,"  said  the  anxious 
mother,  "would  ye  be  askin'  him  to  stop  in  before 
night?  I'd  sleep  asier  like,  if  he  seen  the  baby." 

Theodora  promised.  Arrived  at  the  Sewalls' 
house,  she  followed  her  invariable  custom  and 
walked  in  without  ringing.  Immediately,  she 
heard  her  cousin  Elise's  voice  in  the  library.  They 
say  that  listeners  never  hear  any  good  of  them- 
selves. Certain  it  is  that  Theodora,  unwilling 
listener  though  she  was,  distinctly  heard  those 
mocking  tones  of  Elise's,  saying : 

' '  Poor  dear  Theodora !  She  is  so  terribly  down- 
right, isn't  she?" 

"Dr.  Sewall  must  be  at  home,"  thought  Theo- 
dora, and  gave  a  little  call  to  announce  herself. 
Following  her  own  voice,  she  walked  into  the 
library.  There  sat  Elise  on  a  deep  sofa  near  the 
fire,  and  there — rising  with  a  haste  which  failed  to 
hide  the  fact  that  he  had  been  sitting  excessively 
near  her — stood  Gerald  Wyatt. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THEY  got  out  of  it  really  very  neatly. 

"Bless  my  soul,  here  she  is  now,"  cried  Gerald, 
after  a  pause  which,  although  a  trifle  too  long  for 
naturalness,  was  still  marvellously  short  consider- 
ing the  amount  of  thinking  he  had  to  do.  "I  was 
just  coming  over,  dear.  I  hustled  my  old  business 
through  and  beat  it  after  my  own  telgram.  That's 
the  beauty  of  having  no  telephone  in  the  house; 
you  see,  I  couldn't  let  you  know."  (For  once  in 
his  life,  Gerald  Wyatt  blessed  this  absence  of 
telephone.  He  was  growing  almost  jovial  as  he 
found  how  well  his  story  hung  together.  And  poor 
dear  Theodora  wasn't  a  suspicious  person,  nor  yet 
a  worldly-wise.) 

"Yes,"  Elise's  voice  took  up  the  dialogue,  "and 
on  the  way  Mr.  Wyatt  did  an  act  of  mercy.  I  was 
trying  my  first  walk  and  I  found  I  had  attempted 
too  much.  So,  seeing  a  car  coming,  I  waved  for  it 
to  stop — with  never  an  idea  who  was  in  it.  To 
my  great  delight,  I  found  it  was  my  future  cousin 
— and  if  I  couldn't  ask  a  favour  of  my  own  relation, 
who  could  I  ask  it  of?"  (Elise  was  becoming  al- 
most as  fulsome  as  Gerald.) 

267 


268  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"So  I  just  stopped  in  for  a  moment,"  Gerald  re- 
sumed, "and  I  was  making  my  adieux  when  I 
heard  your  voice." 

"Mr.  Wyatt  had  just  said"  (this  from  Elise), 
"'Won't  she  be  surprised  to  find  me  here?'  And 
I  had  answered,  '  She'll  never  understand  it.  Poor 
dear  Theodora!  She  is  so  terribly  downright,  isn't 
she? '  when  you  appeared  in  the  doorway." 

She  had  actually  the  aplomb  to  repeat,  not  only 
her  own  words,  but  her  own  accent  and  intonation. 
There  she  sat  in  slippers  and  house-frock,  with 
no  hat  nor  wraps  (nor  was  there  sign  of  any  such 
in  the  room),  and  looked  at  Theodora  with  the  eyes 
of  a  baby. 

"Is  Dr.  Sewall  home?"  asked  Theodora  rather 
heavily.  "As  I  passed  poor  Mrs.  McCarty's  door 
she  begged  me  to  send  him  over  if  I  could.  Her 
baby's  sick  again." 

"No,  he  isn't  home,"  replied  Elise  with  exag- 
gerated regret — delighted  that  the  conversation 
was  taking  a  new  turn.  ' '  He's  away  for  the  entire 
day.  Isn't  that  a  shame?  It  hardly  ever  hap- 
pens, as  you  know.  But  this  is  the  day  of  his 
monthly  visit  to  the  Upland  Hospital;  he  won't  be 
back  till  late  tonight.  Mrs.  McCarty  should  have 
remembered  that.  He  always  goes  the  last  Friday 
in  the  month." 

"I  don't  suppose  she  could  choose  the  time  for 
her  baby  to  fall  ill, "  said  Theodora  dryly.  ' '  Here's 
some  jelly  Meta  sent  over.  I  must  be  getting  back. ' ' 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  269 

"Wait  till  I  call  the  car,"  cried  Gerald. 

"Don't  bother,"  answered  the  girl  without  look- 
ing at  him.  "I'd  rather  walk." 

"Then  we'll  walk,  of  course." 

"You  needn't  come,"  Theodora  told  him.  "I 
have  an  errand  to  do." 

But  he  followed  her  out,  with  merely  a  backward 
nod  to  Elise.  For  some  distance  they  walked — 
Theodora  maintaining  a  stony  silence,  her  com- 
panion chatting  lightly  on  all  sorts  of  subjects. 
Finally,  realizing  that  he  couldn't  carry  off  the 
situation  as  easily  as  he  had  hoped,  Gerald  changed 
his  tactics.  Stopping  dead  in  his  tracks,  he  faced 
the  girl — blocking  her  further  passage. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  know  exactly 
what  is  the  matter  with  you.  .  .  .  Answer  me, 
please."  For  Theodora  showed  signs  of  still 
evading  the  issue. 

"I  think  you  know,"  she  finally  replied. 

"I  most  sincerely  hope  that  I  don't.  It  would 
grieve  me  greatly  to  find  that  you  were  a  very 
different  girl  from  the  one  I  took  you  to  be — that 
you  were  so  jealous,  so  suspicious,  as  to  fly  into  a 
tantrum  merely  because  I  happened  to  spend  ten 
minutes  with  your  own  cousin,  whom  I  have  met  at 
your  own  house,  and  to  whom  I  had  just  rendered 
a  trifling  service.  And  she,  a  married  woman,  at 
that!" 

"Gerald,"  said  the  girl  unhappily,  "you  can't 
expect  me  to  believe  that  tale " 


270  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"What  tale?  I  most  certainly  do  expect  you  to 
believe  what  I  tell  you.  What  is  there  so  incred- 
ible in  it?  Didn't  Mrs.  Sewall  say  exactly  the 
same  thing?" 

"That  wouldn't  convince  me " 

"Let  that  go,  then.  You  know  your  cousin 
better  than  I  do.  But  when  it  comes  to  refusing 
absolutely  to  take  my  word  for  a  thing,  I  call  it 
mighty  rough.  A  nice  outlook  that  makes  for  the 
future!" 

"There  doesn't  have  to  be  any  future." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  there  doesn't  have  to  be  any  joint  fu- 
ture for  us — 

"Theodora,"  cried  the  man  sharply,  "are  you 
crazy?  No  girl  in  her  senses  would  be  so  stubborn 
over  a  mere  trifle." 

"Gerald,  it  isn't  a  trifle.  Look  at  my  side  of 
the  case.  You  broke  an  engagement  with  me 

"Which  I  was  rushing  to  resume,  thanks  to  my 
eagerness  to  see  you.  Can't  a  man  ever  change  his 
mind,  or  his  plans?" 

"But — oh,  Gerald,  there  are  so  many  things." 

"Let  me  hear  them,  please.  That,  at  least,  is 
my  right.  You  can't  condemn  a  fellow  unheard." 

The  girl's  pride  made  it  very  difficult  for  her  to 
formulate  her  charges,  but  her  lover  waited  inex- 
orably. "Well,"  she  said  at  length,  "how  could 
Elise  have  been  walking  in  those  clothes — slippers, 
and  tea-gown,  and  so  on?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  271 

"So  that's  the  trouble,  is  it?  She  ran  up  to 
change  the  moment  we  got  in." 

"But  you  said  you'd  only  just  arrived." 

"Which  was  perfectly  true.  I  don't  think  it 
was  two  minutes  before  she  was  back  again.  Prob- 
ably she  had  worn  that  frock  under  her  coat.  She 
ran  up,  begging  me  to  wait  for  her  just  a  moment, 
and  I  could  hardly  refuse.  When  she  came  back 
I  found  that  she  wanted  to  give  me  tea — as  a  sort 
of  hospitable  reward,  I  suppose.  I  had  just  de- 
clined it  when  we  heard  your  voice.  .  .  .  Are 
you  sufficiently  convinced  now?" 

Theodora  did  not  answer. 

"Are  you?"  demanded  the  man. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Then  for  heaven's  sake,  let's  have  the  balance 
of  your  remarkable  charges." 

The  girl  nerved  herself.  "I  think  it  is  strange," 
she  said,  and  her  voice  trembled  a  little,  "that  this 
should  have  happened  on  the  one  day  in  the  month 
when  Dr.  Sewall  is  away — 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  that's  holy  has  that 
got  to  do  with  it?  Except  that  Mrs.  Sewall  would 
probably  never  have  attempted  that  walk  if  he  had 
been  home — as  I  wish  to  heaven  he  had  been." 

"And  your  position  when  I  came  in 

"My  position?' 

"Yes — where  you  were  sitting." 

"I  was  sitting  where  any  man  would  have  been 
sitting — on  the  far  end  of  the  divan." 


272  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  girl  wearily,  "let's  stop 
talking  about  it." 

But  Gerald  wouldn't.  And  the  longer  he  talked 
the  more  absurd  did  he  make  Theodora's  stand 
appear.  Thanks  to  her  own  innate  honesty  and 
generosity,  he  had  her  at  a  disadvantage.  She 
consented  eventually  to  give  him  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt — thereby  making  her  first  great  mistake; 
while  appearances  may  sometimes  prove  deceptive, 
generally  speaking,  the  first  time  that  an  honest 
woman  feels  convinced  that  her  lover  is  lying  to 
her,  she  would  be  wise  to  end  the  relationship — if 
it  is  not  already  too  late.  To  be  over-generous  is 
merely  to  defer  catastrophe.  And  what  is  true  of 
lovers  is  likewise  true  of  friends.  As  a  man  begins 
he  is  apt  to  continue,  and  so  with  a  woman. 

This  first  contretemps  with  Gerald  worried  Theo- 
dora not  a  little;  but  having  promised  to  try  to 
believe  him,  she  did  her  best  to  put  the  matter 
from  her  mind.  This  was  facilitated  by  the  whirl 
of  preparation  and  of  departure  in  which  she  was 
immediately  engulfed,  as  well  as  by  the  extreme 
kindness  of  Gerald's  family  from  the  moment 
she  entered  their  care.  Everything  mitigated  in 
favour  of  her  lover,  who  was  himself  more  charm- 
ing and  tactful  than  she  had  ever  before  known 
him. 

Had  Theodora  stopped  at  home  alone  and  cogi- 
tated over  the  matter,  she  would  probably  have 
broken  her  engagement.  Let  any  human  being 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  273 

who  has  a  grudge  that  he  wishes  to  harbour  in- 
definitely, or  a  grievance  which  he  wants  never  to 
forget,  or  an  injury  which  he  is  determined  never 
to  forgive,  take  it  far  away  from  his  fellow  beings 
and  from  the  hum  and  bustle  of  life.  For  in  soli- 
tude, or  near-solitude,  it  will  flourish  and  bloom. 
A  hermit  can  remember  to  the  end  of  his  days  the 
hurt  that  sent  him  from  the  haunts  of  men;  the 
wild  mountaineer  can  fan  a  feud  from  generation 
to  generation — shooting  at  sight  any  member  of 
the  detested  clan  whose  forbears  could  not  agree 
with  his  forbears  about  a  subject  long  since  for- 
gotten. .  .  .  Imagine  New  York,  or  Paris,  shelter- 
ing such  lasting  enmities !  Imagine  them  wasting 
time  on  such  antiquated  grudges! 

And  so  Theodora!  Caught  in  the  mesh  of  the 
modern  whirligig,  she  was  largely  aided  to  forget- 
fulness  and  forgiveness. 

The  Wyatt  party  reached  Palm  Beach  in  the 
middle  of  their  second  night  of  travel,  but  they 
elected  to  remain  on  their  car  until  morning.  Mrs. 
Wyatt  spoke  confidentially  to  Theodora  on  the 
subject.  She  was  always  much  more  frank  and 
unrestrained  when  away  from  the  supervision  of 
her  two  critical  children.  As  she  sensibly  put  the 
matter,  why  get  off  a  private  car  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  with  no  one  to  see?  As  well  come  like 
the  common  herd!  In  the  morning  there  was  a 
likelihood  of  the  hotel  verandahs  being  full  of 

18 


274  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

guests,  and  the  debarkation  could  be  made  with 
some  degree  of  eclat. 

The  speech  reminded  Theodora  of  what  Alan 
Beeckman  had  once  said  about  a  gallery  being 
necessary  to  the  success  of  all  gallery  play.  Ever 
since  finding  that  she  was  to  return  to  Florida,  she 
had  thought  a  great  deal  about  the  man  who  had 
so  enhanced  the  pleasure  of  her  first  visit  there. 
Would  he  come  back  this  winter?  Had  he  gone 
to  the  Border  last  summer  with  the  troops?  Was 
he  married  yet?  He  might  be  at  Palm  Beach  on 
his  wedding  trip.  In  that  case,  she'd  probably 
see  little  or  nothing  of  him. 

Mrs.  Wyatt  must  have  been  bitterly  dis- 
appointed about  the  arrival.  There  were  very  few 
guests  on  the  verandah,  no  one  bowed,  and  no  one 
showed  any  signs  of  being  impressed.  The  new- 
comers went  straight  to  their  rooms  and  ordered 
breakfast  trays  sent  up.  After  refreshing  them- 
selves, they  planned  to  rest  till  noon — then  to 
appear  in  all  their  glory,  at  the  morning  concert. 

Theodora,  however,  found  she  couldn't  wait. 
After  a  bite  and  a  bath  and  a  change  into  summer 
raiment,  she  hurried  downstairs  and  out  of  doors 
to  greet  again  the  wonderland  that  she  loved. 
Before  she  had  gone  a  dozen  steps  along  the  palm- 
shaded  avenue,  she  heard  herself  hailed. 

"Mais — Mademoiselle! — Mademoiselle  vientdonc 
d'arriver?"  And  then  two  little  black  noses  were 
snuffing  round  her  ankles,  four  snowy  white  paws 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  275 

were  clawing  wildly  at  her  gown,  and  a  pair  of 
intelligent  poodles  were  threatening  to  go  into 
apoplexy  over  this  fortunate  encounter  with  an  old 
friend.  Louise  stood  smiling  welcome  and  trying 
to  restrain  the  warmth  of  the  canine  overtures. 

"How  they  know  you,  Mademoiselle!  Down 
then,  Blanchette;  down  Poilu!  Have  you  no 
manners?" 

Greetings  and  inquiries  followed.  Theodora 
found  that  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  had  arrived  a  week 
previously  and  that  she  was  "much  the  same  as 
formerly."  Then  Louise  asked  discreetly  whether 
Miss  Winthrop  was  "with  another  lady." 

"No,"  smiled  Theodora.  "I'm  here  with  my 
fiance's  family,  Louise." 

This  elicited  a  torrent  of  congratulations  and 
questions.  Like  all  Frenchwomen,  Louise  was  mor- 
bid on  the  subject  of  marriage.  Also,  with  the 
acuteness  of  her  race,  she  managed  to  get  an  excel- 
lent view  of  Theodora's  superb  engagement  ring, 
and  her  conclusions  were  not  hard  to  draw. 

An  hour  later  she  came  on  the  porch  seeking 
Theodora,  whom  she  found  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
her  party.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  begged  that  Mad- 
emoiselle would  come  to  her  apartment;  she  was 
impatient  to  greet  Mademoiselle  at  once. 

"Well,  my  very  dear  Miss  Winthrop,"  cried  the 
old  lady — quite  as  though  she  and  Theodora  had 
parted  the  previous  week,  and  without  the  shadow 
of  a  misunderstanding — "what  a  great  pleasure  to 


276  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

see  you  again!  And  what  is  this  wonderful  and 
delightful  tale  that  Louise  has  been  telling  me? 
You  have  decided  to  take  my  advice,  and  do  the 
only  sensible  thing?  And  pray,  why  didn't  you 
write  me  the  good  news?  I  feel  very  much  hurt." 

"I  didn't  know  you'd  be  interested,"  answered 
Theodora.  Stooping,  she  printed  a  light  kiss  on 
the  cheek  offered  to  receive  it.  There  was  cer- 
tainly a  look  of  pleasure  in  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  keen 
old  eyes,  and  she  retained  the  girl's  hand  much 
longer  than  a  mere  greeting  demanded. 

"Then,  my  dear,"  she  answered  with  all  her  old 
vigour,  "if  you  didn't  know  that  I'd  be  interested 
in  news  of  that  sort,  and  concerning  you,  you  are 
much  less  intelligent  than  I  supposed.  Tell  me 
all  about  it." 

Theodora  obeyed. 

"Is  your  fiance  here  with  you?"  was  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant's  next  question.  "He  is?  Then  you 
must  be  sure  to  present  him  to  me — and  his  family 
as  well." 

Theodora  answered  that  she  would  be  delighted. 

"They "  she  began,  and  then  stopped.  "I 

shall  love  to,"  she  repeated  rather  lamely.  "My 
future  sister-in-law  is  really  very  amusing.  I  think 
you'll  enjoy  her." 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  an  astute  old  worldling. 
Silence  was  often  as  enlightening  to  her  as  speech. 
"Where  did  you  meet  the  young  man?"  she  asked. 
"And  by  the  way,  what  is  his  name?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  277 

The  girl  explained  the  circumstances  of  the  meet- 
ing. ' '  But  how  romantic, ' '  cried  the  older  woman. 
.  .  .  "You  say  that  Mr.  Wyatt's  family  have 
lived  some  time  in  Waverly,  but  that  you  had  never 
met  them?" 

"  No,  we  never  had.  They  live  there  only  in  the 
summer,  and  the  old  residents  of  Waverly  lead  a 
very  quiet  life.  They  rarely  call  on  newcomers. 
Then,  too,  these  new  people  live  in  a  style  that 
Waverly  could  not  afford.  It  makes  two  separate 
worlds — a  quiet  one  and  a  gay  one." 

"  I  see.  I'm  sure  your  future  parents-in-law  are 
devoted  to  you?" 

"  They  are  kindness  itself.  Yes,  I  think  they  are 
fond  of  me." 

"To  be  sure  they  are!"  And  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
had  the  history  of  the  romance  in  a  nutshell.  She 
knew  that  the  Wyatts  were  probably  rich  parvenus, 
that  Theodora's  circle  had  regarded  them  as  out- 
side the  pale,  and  that  they  were  delighted  with 
the  match  as  much  on  account  of  Theodora's 
birth  as  of  her  personal  charm.  Worldly  tact  is 
a  gift  that  enables  its  possessor  to  extract  infor- 
mation gracefully  and  to  draw  conclusions  un- 
erringly. 

Theodora  herself  would  have  liked  to  extract 
certain  information,  but  she  was  not  as  skilful  as 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  and  she  had  to  do  with  a  far 
more  wary  antagonist.  She  asked  after  Mrs. 
Delafield  Beeckman  and  heard  that  she  was  well, 


278  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

she  elicited  the  information  that  Miss  Burrill  was 
as  busy  as  ever,  and  she  got  no  further. 

''Is  Miss  Burrill  coming  down  this  year?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  "Not  this 
year."  And  somehow,  the  subject  seemed  to  be 
marked  as  definitely  closed.  Theodora  was  long- 
ing to  inquire  for  Alan  Beeckman — both  her  other 
questions  having  been  intended  as  leaders  to  that 
end — but  she  found  herself  unable  to  do  it.  She 
would  be  self-conscious,  and  the  fact  would  never 
escape  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  notice. 

Before  luncheon,  the  various  members  of  the 
Wyatt  family  were  introduced  to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 
She  chatted  pleasantly  enough  with  them  for  a  few 
moments — to  Mrs.  Wyatt's  very  great  delight — 
but  she  studiously  restricted  her  entire  later  inter- 
course with  them  to  smiling  bows.  With  Theo- 
dora, however,  she  was  notably  friendly,  seeking 
her,  sending  for  her,  and  inviting  her  constantly 
for  tea,  Bridge,  and  chair-rides.  At  first,  the  girl 
was  tempted  to  attribute  the  change  in  her  atti- 
tude to  snobbery,  and  to  resent  it  as  such ;  but  she 
became  speedily  convinced  of  the  unfairness  of 
such  an  explanation.  The  older  woman  was  too 
plainly  pleased  to  have  the  girl  near  her  again, 
too  genuinely  anxious  for  her  society.  Theodora 
finally  ceased  worrying  over  the  matter,  and  ac- 
cepted the  situation  simply  and  sweetly. 

Mrs.  Wyatt  was  very  happy  at  Palm  Beach. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora !  279 

It  took  but  little  in  the  way  of  social  recognition  to 
delight  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  not  conspicuous  as  parvenus  at  the  gay 
resort  for  the  reason  that  there  were  so  many  others 
like  them.  Naturally,  newly  arrived  aspirants  for 
social  honours  must  start  somewhere,  so  why  not 
choose  the  most  showy  background  possible? 

Marguerite  and  Gerald  were  asked  everywhere. 
Theodora  was  surprised  to  see  how  much  better 
was  their  position  here  than  at  home.  Of  course, 
they  could  both  pass  the  great  test;  they  could 
spend  money  in  almost  unlimited  quantities. 
Then,  too,  they  had  both  been  at  fashionable 
schools  (and  Gerald  at  Harvard),  and  had  made 
many  friends  for  themselves.  They  really  needed 
no  social  help  here.  Theodora,  too,  soon  had  a 
position  that  relieved  poor  Mrs.  Wyatt  of  all  worry 
about  her  clothes.  In  her  simple  toilets,  she  was 
the  welcome  guest  of  the  most  exclusive  set  in  the 
place.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  Mrs.  Donald  Neilson, 
Mrs.  Delafield  Beeckman,  even  the  difficult  Mrs. 
Kirkland  Gary  and  her  lovely  daughter  Marjorie, 
were  among  her  hostesses.  Theodora  had  gaieties 
a-plenty  this  year. 

From  Marjorie  Gary  she  extracted  the  informa- 
tion that  Alan  Beeckman  had  been  with  the  troops 
on  the  Border,  and  that  he  had  returned.  Mar- 
jorie didn't  know  whether  he  planned  to  come 
down  or  not.  She  hardly  thought  so,  for  Helen 
Burrill  was  abroad. 


280  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Abroad?"  echoed  Theodora. 

"  Yes.  She  has  gone  to  England  to  work  among 
the  blinded  soldiers.  Isn't  it  perfectly  splendid? 
But  it's  just  like  Helen.  She  is  so  good ! ' ' 

' '  But  what  about  her  engagement  ? ' '  Theodora 
was  suddenly  terribly  interested  in  the  handle  of 
her  parasol. 

"Her  engagement?  Oh,  to  Alan,  you  mean. 
Are  they  really  engaged?  It  has  never  been 
announced." 

"Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  Beeckman  told  me  they 
were." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  they  are.  I  know  that  they're 
always  together,  and  have  been  for  years.  .  .  . 
As  to  that,  I  suppose  Alan  hopes  to  be  over  there 
himself  very  soon.  All  the  men  do.  You  know 
they  say  we  will  positively  be  in  the  war  by  spring. 
It's  right,  I  suppose.  Ned  says  that  this  last  act 
of  Germany's  is  positively  too  much  to  be  borne. 
Of  course,  he  thinks  we  should  have  gone  into 
it  long  ago.  All  the  men  I  know  do.  But,  oh, 
Theodora,  it  frightens  me  to  death  when  Ned  says 
he  is  going.  I  couldn't  keep  him,  I  suppose,  even 
if  I  wanted  to.  But  he  positively  shall  not  go  with- 
out me.  We'll  be  married,  and  I'll  go  too.  .  .  . 
And  I  suppose  you  have  the  same  worry?  Mr. 
Wyatt  is  probably  making  the  same  plans?  " 

Theodora  felt  suddenly  ashamed.  Nothing  would 
have  induced  her  to  admit  that  she  had  never  heard 
Gerald  voluntarily  mention  the  war. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  281 

Gerald  Wyatt  was  excessively  proud  of  his 
fiancee;  but  he  was  also  excessively  fond  of  himself, 
and  of  what  he  considered  a  good  time.  And  for 
his  sort  of  good  time,  Palm  Beach  offered  almost 
unlimited  opportunity.  He  would  have  vowed 
hotly  that  he  gave  Theodora  all  the  attention  that 
any  engaged  girl  had  any  right  to  expect  or  demand. 
Yet  she  missed  something.  She  didn't  receive 
from  him  anything  that  struck  her  as  being  devo- 
tion. Of  course,  neither  did  she  give  it.  But  that 
had  been  understood.  Her  devotion  was  to  be  the 
outcome  of  that  which  he  had  professed  to  have. 
She  hardly  thought  Gerald's  present  conduct  con- 
ducive to  that  end. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  having  caught  his  car,  he 
saw  no  further  necessity  of  running  for  it.  More- 
over, one  didn't  travel  the  length  of  the  United 
States  in  order  to  sit  exclusively  beside  the  girl 
that  one  could  see  at  home — and  a  girl  who  was 
"  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  England,"  at  that !  Neither 
did  one  pose  as  a  monk  in  a  place  which,  as  far  as 
opportunities  for  amusement  were  concerned,  was 
second  only  to  Paris.  Not  much! 

Marguerite,  on  the  other  hand,  warmed  con- 
stantly toward  Theodora  as  the  days  went  by. 
She  had  been  watching  her  future  sister-in-law 
rather  closely  and  she  had  decided  that  the  latter 
was  "  a  brick  and  a  thorough-going  sport."  Mar- 
guerite had  very  decided  theories  on  certain 
subjects,  and  these  she  proceeded  to  put  into 


282  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

practice.  She  fell  into  the  habit  of  wandering  into 
Theodora's  room  for  odd  quarter-hours  of  chat. 
Wrapped  in  the  weirdest  of  dressing-gowns  and 
with  an  inevitable  cigarette  pendent  from  her  lips, 
Marguerite  might  have  posed  as  model  to  some 
futurist  artist.  Her  conversation  was  apt  to  be 
as  startling  as  her  appearance. 

"You  know,"  she  would  say  frankly,  "you're  a 
great  deal  too  good  for  Gerald,  and  you  ought  to 
realize  it.  The  Lord  knows,  he's  no  saint.  I  only 
hope  he'll  give  you  a  square  deal,  but  I  don't  think 
there's  much  chance.  ...  I  think  it's  disgust- 
ing anyhow,  the  way  families  conspire  to  cheat  a 
girl.  She  should  at  least  have  the  right  to  choose 
with  her  eyes  open.  Then  it's  her  own  lookout  if 
she  marries  a  bad  lot.  If  you  were  the  sort  of  girl 
who  would  marry  for  money,  I  wouldn't  give  a 
hurrah  what  you  got  handed  out  to  you.  But 
you're  not.  You  really  love  Gerald,  I  suppose?  " 

"I  should  never  marry  him  if  I  didn't,"  evaded 
Theodora. 

"That's  what  I  thought.  Is  this  your  first 
love  affair?" 

"Yes.     I've  known  very  few  men." 

"Exactly.  Now  see  here — don't  think  I'm  a 
brute,  but  do  you  by  any  chance  imagine  that  you 
are  Gerald's  first  flame?" 

"I  never  thought  about  it.  ...  No,  I  sup- 
pose I'm  not." 

"You  bet  you're  not.    And  you  don't  mind?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  283 

"How  could  I  mind  what  happened  before 
he  ever  saw  me — unless  it  were  something  very 
terrible." 

''And  if  it  were?" 

"Then  I  think  I  should  be  told." 

"But  you'd  hate  the  person  that  told  you?" 

"Not  necessarily." 

"Well,  suppose  again  that  it  was  not  anything 
very '  terrible'  according  to  the  standards  by  which 
the  world  judges  a  man's  life — merely  a  long  line 
of  the  sort  of  thing  a  fast  fellow  goes  through?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  What  do  you  mean, 
Marguerite?" 

"  I'm  merely  putting  supposititious  cases.  Most 
women  are  content  to  be  a  man's  last  flame,  even 
if  they  can't  be  his  first.  How  would  you  feel  if 
you  weren't  even  that?" 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  I  mean  how  would  you  feel  about  your  husband 
having  affairs  with  other  women,  right  under  your 
nose?" 

"  I  wouldn't  stand  it  of  course.  If  I  knew  it  was 
true,  I'd  leave  him." 

"Yet  that  is  what  most  women  find  they  have 
to  put  up  with." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  flamed  Theodora  hotly. 
"Excuse  me,  Marguerite.  I  know  that  you  think 
that  sort  of  thing  is  universally  true,  but  I  most 
certainly  do  not.  Some  men  are  bad,  I  know,  and 
some  women  have  to  suffer  for  it;  but  not  most. 


284  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

What  would  women  marry  for,  if  only  to  be  cast 
aside  and  insulted?" 

"Bosh!  You  can't  teach  me  anything  about 
life,  Theodora.  I'm  thirty — I'm  older  than  Ger- 
ald, you  know.  I've  seen  most  of  my  schoolmates 
marry.  Without  exception,  they  tell  me  the  same 
tale  of  faithless  husbands — or  someone  else  tells 
it  for  them.  In  my  set,  the  women  accept  the 
fact  that  their  husbands  will  amuse  themselves 
with  other  women,  after  a  time.  Some  of  the 
women  claim  equal  privileges,  some  merely  put  up 
with  a  thing  they  know  they  can't  help,  and  others 
pull  out.  They  have  their  choice  of  those  three 
courses." 

Theodora  didn't  and  wouldn't  believe  it.  "That 
must  be  only  in  a  certain  set,"  she  contended. 

"Possibly.  It's  the  set  you're  about  to  marry 
into,  however.  Let  me  tell  you,  Theodora,  if 
things  of  that  sort  are  going  to  worry  you,  you'd 
better  shake  the  whole  thing  before  it  is  too  late. 
If  you  think  you  can  stand  marriage  as  it  is — or  as 
it  surely  will  be  with  a  man  like  Gerald — then 
you're  all  right.  But  for  heaven's  sake,  don't  shut 
your  eyes  to  the  truth." 

"Marguerite,"  said  Theodora  with  sudden  ve- 
hemence, "I  know  you  think  all  this  is  true,  but 
I'd  rather  die  than  believe  it.  I'm  sure  such  things 
are  a  woman's  fault  more  often  than  not.  If  she's 
willing  to  condone  them,  she'll  surely  have  them 
to  condone.  But  if  she'd  never  stand  them  for  a 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  285 

second,  if  she  makes  her  husband  realize  this,  and 
if  he  really  loves  her,  I  should  certainly  think  he'd 
behave  himself.  And  if  he  didn't  love  her,  why 
did  he  choose  her?  If  a  woman  can  stick  to  one 
man,  why  can't  a  man  stick  to  one  woman?" 

The  moment  she  had  said  this  she  was  comforted. 
It  sounded  so  sane,  it  must  be  true.  There  were, 
of  course,  men  such  as  Marguerite  was  talking 
about — plenty  of  them  probably;  she  supposed 
Van  Rensselaer  Beeckman  was  one,  and  she  had 
met  others  this  winter.  But  that  wasn't  saying 
that  all  men  were  alike.  Women  weren't  all  saints 
either,  if  it  came  to  that.  Mrs.  Beeckman  seemed 
to  be  the  same  sort  of  free  lance  as  was  her  husband ; 
she  had  several  men  devoted  to  her.  Sometimes 
the  fault  must  lie  with  the  husband,  sometimes 
with  the  wife,  sometimes  with  both,  and  surely, 
sometimes  with  neither.  That  all  men  were 
faithless,  Theodora  would  not  believe. 

Her  mind  did  revert  uncomfortably  to  the  philos- 
ophy in  some  of  those  French  books  she  had  read 
to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  last  winter.  But  then,  didn't 
they  range  women  equally  with  men  ?  Certainly. 
It  was  human  nature  they  decried,  not  masculine 
nature  alone. 

Marguerite  rose  to  go,  and  then  paused.  ' '  Did 
anyone  ever  tell  you  of  my  other  brother?"  she 
asked.  "My  mother's  oldest  child ? " 

Theodora  shook  her  head. 

"He  died  of  paresis  in  an  asylum.     It  was  the 


286  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

result  of  dissipation.  .  .  .  Well,  good-bye.  If 
I  stay  any  longer  we'll  both  be  late." 

Marguerite  Wyatt  went  to  her  room  convinced 
that  she  had  done  a  kindly  act  in  a  clever  way,  yet 
uncertain  as  to  the  result.  For  few  persons  would 
she  have  taken  the  trouble  that  she  had  just  taken 
for  Theodora.  She  thought  the  girl  was  getting  a 
' '  raw  deal. ' '  If  things  went  on  as  they  were  going 
and  culminated  in  eventual  marriage,  there  was 
certain  disaster  and  a  broken  life  ahead — for 
Marguerite  was  troubled  by  no  doubts  as  to  the 
correctness  of  her  estimate  of  her  brother.  But 
had  she  helped  matters  any  ?  That  was  a  question 
that  did  trouble  her. 

That  same  evening  the  entire  Wyatt  party  were 
sitting  together  listening  to  the  after-dinner  con- 
cert, preparatory  to  departure  in  quest  of  gayer 
occupations.  A  bell-boy  came  from  the  desk  carry- 
ing the  mail  which  had  just  been  sorted,  and 
handed  the  family  pile  to  Gerald,  who  happened  to 
be  sitting  on  the  end  of  the  line.  Fumbling  in  his 
pocket  for  a  coin,  Gerald  dropped  the  top  letter 
to  the  floor.  He  stooped  to  regain  it,  and  Theo- 
dora held  out  her  hand. 

"That  is  mine  I  know,"  she  said.  "It  is  one  of 
Elise's  rare  missives.  No  one  could  fail  to  recog- 
nize her  violet  stationery  and  her  dashing  hand." 

Gerald  glanced  at  the  letter,  then  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"You're  a  very  poor  guesser,"  he  said  blandly. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  287 

"That  letter  is  mine,  and  it's  from  a  woman  you 
never  saw.  She  is  the  wife  of  one  of  my  college 
chums.  They've  struck  hard  luck  and  I've  been 
making  some  investments  for  them.  .  .  .  Let's 
pull  out  of  this  and  get  over  to  the  Club.  It's 
slower  here  than  molasses  in  winter." 

He  helped  Theodora  solicitously  into  her  wraps, 
then  put  her  and  Marguerite  into  a  double  chair 
while  he  himself  jumped  into  a  single.  At  the 
Club  there  was  of  course  no  chance  for  a  confiden- 
tial talk.  Theodora  watched  her  fiance  curiously 
as  he  took  his  place  at  one  of  the  roulette  tables. 
He  played  habitually,  rather  heavily,  and  in  fairly 
good  luck. 

If  he  had  lied  about  that  letter — and  Theodora 
could  not  doubt  it,  for  added  to  the  evidence  of 
her  eyes  was  that  of  her  nose  and  of  her  cousin's 
favourite  sachet — if  Gerald  had  lied,  then  he  was 
the  most  practiced  and  consummate  liar  that  she 
had  ever  met.  He  was  so  cool  and  gay  and  de- 
bonnair  this  evening — so  glad  to  see  all  his  friends 
— so  much  the  life  of  the  party  that  eventually 
had  supper  together.  But  he  again  slipped  out 
of  a  tete-a-tete  ride  with  Theodora  on  the  trip 
home. 

She  kept  thinking  it  over.  She  kept  realizing 
that  lying  is  cheating  in  the  game  of  life — that  a 
man  might  as  well  play  with  loaded  dice  as  lie 
habitually.  He  wins,  but  he  wins  by  rotten  me- 
thods. And  when  he  is  troubled  by  no  compunc- 


288  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

tions — when  he  is  gay  and  happy  over  his  successes 
—what  is  there  left  to  bank  on  ? 

"As  a  matter  of  fact, "  thought  poor  Theodora, 
"a  truthful  person  hasn't  the  ghost  of  a  show 
against  an  habitual  liar.  In  the  long  run,  possibly 
yes;  in  the  special  instance,  most  decidedly  no." 
The  girl  well  knew  that  no  matter  what  she  might 
say,  Gerald  would  smoothly  deny.  She  could 
prove  nothing.  She  could  hardly  break  her  en- 
gagement because  of  a  suspected  lie  over  a  trivial 
matter.  But  she  did  decide  that  the  moment 
she  got  the  chance,  she  would  say,  "Look  here, 
Gerald,  unless  there  can  be  frankness  and  honesty 
between  us,  I'm  certainly  not  satisfied  to  go  on 
with  my  engagement."  She  would  then  be  ex- 
actly where  she  was  that  afternoon  when  she  found 
her  lover  sitting  with  her  cousin.  Exactly.  And 
unless  she  broke  her  engagement,  she'd  probably 
be  there  many  times  again  in  her  future  life.  They 
say  that  the  lying  habit  must  be  cured  in  childhood, 
if  at  all.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  one  of  those  dis- 
couraging traits  which  can  be  acquired  at  any 
time. 

The  next  morning,  Theodora  decided  to  take 
her  breakfast  downstairs.  She  was  therefore 
alone,  and  she  used  her  time  in  planning  her  greet- 
ing to  Gerald  when  he  should  finally  appear. 
After  breakfast  she  wandered  onto  the  porch ;  and 
there,  something  happened  that  drove  the  subject 
of  letters  from  her  mind  for  the  time  being. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  289 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  out  earlier  than  usual,  and 
she  was  sitting  in  conversation  with  a  man — a 
young  man  whose  back  was  turned  to  the  passers- 
by.  At  the  old  lady's  bow  he  looked  around,  and 
then  sprang  to  his  feet  and  held  out  his  hand.  It 
was  Alan  Beeckman. 

"Come  here,  my  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 
"Sit  with  us  a  bit  and  give  my  nephew  a  chance  to 
offer  his  good  wishes.  I've  been  telling  him  about 
your  engagement.  Doesn't  he  look  well  after  his 
months  on  the  Border?" 

They  talked  quite  awhile  before  Theodora 
moved  on.  Alan  noted  her  direction  and  presently 
followed  her.  This  gave  them  a  short  te"te-a-t£te 
before  any  member  of  the  Wyatt  family  appeared. 
What  they  said  was  immaterial;  under  certain 
circumstances,  what  they  say  is  always  immaterial. 
The  important  thing  is  that  they  are  saying  it  to 
each  other.  Theodora  was  conscious  of  a  lightness 
and  a  happiness  which  she  explained  to  herself — 
when  she  came  to  find  them  necessary  of  explana- 
tion— by  the  fact  that  this  man  belonged  to  a  life 
which  she  herself  had  regretted  ever  since  leaving 
it.  Nowhere  had  she  met  as  many  interesting 
people,  or  heard  as  much  interesting  conversation, 
as  under  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 's  roof.  Was  it  not  na- 
tural that  she  should  since  have  missed  such  oppor- 
tunities? 

Gerald  finally  appeared  and  was  introduced. 

The  greetings  of  the  two  men  were  of  the  most 

19 


290  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

ordinary,  yet  inside  that  busy  head  of  Theodora's 
was  the  consciousness  of  a  certain  aggressiveness 
on  Gerald's  part,  a  certain  surprise  on  Alan's,  a 
certain  apologetic  attitude  on  her  own. 

Together  they  strolled  to  the  beach,  and  to- 
gether went  in  for  a  swim.  Theodora  looked  love- 
ly in  the  water  and  her  fiance  was  ordinarily  very 
proud  of  the  fact.  But  today,  he  seemed  anxious 
to  curtail  the  bath.  He  found  the  water  chilly, 
and  insisted  that  Theodora  was  in  danger  of  taking 
cold.  He  was  fractious  and  critical  the  balance  of 
the  morning.  Only  too  well  did  Theodora  know 
that  this  was  no  time  to  discuss  violet  letters. 

Soon,  Palm  Beach  was  Alan  Beeckman  to  the 
girl.  She  didn't  realize  the  fact  herself,  as  yet. 
She  merely  ranked  him  as  the  most  attractive,  and 
the  most  congenial,  of  her  friends.  But  she  never 
opened  her  eyes  in  the  morning  without  wondering 
how  soon  she  should  see  him,  never  did  he  join 
her  group  that  she  didn't  feel  immediately  light- 
hearted,  never  a  chat  did  they  have  that  didn't 
seem  all  too  short,  never  a  word  did  he  say  that 
she  didn't  remember  and  rehearse.  Although  she 
never  forgot  for  a  moment  that  she  was  the  be- 
trothed of  another  man,  although  every  word  of 
their  conversation  might  have  been  overheard  by 
all  the  world,  the  fact  remained  that  a  distinct 
warm  friendship  sprang  up. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  friction  between  Gerald 
and  Alan  grew  apace.  Gerald  was  terribly  frac- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  291 

tious  these  days,  anyhow.  His  mother  explained 
it  by  saying  that  he  wasn't  sleeping  well;  she'd 
have  come  nearer  the  truth  if  she'd  said  that  he 
wasn't  sleeping  at  all — except  for  naps  between 
dawn  and  nine  in  the  morning.  Gerald  Wyatt 
thought  that  Palm  Beach  nights  were  too  good  to 
waste  in  sleep. 

One  morning  he  and  Theodora  happened  to  be 
alone,  a  thing  which  rarely  happened  of  late. 
That,  in  itself  puzzled  the  girl.  Under  normal 
conditions,  Gerald  should  certainly  have  wanted 
to  be  alone  with  her;  had  he  wanted  to,  he  could 
easily  have  accomplished  it.  She  was  glad  of  her 
freedom,  but  she  couldn't  understand  it. 

"Gerald,"  she  said  this  morning,  "Mr.  Beeck- 
man  predicts  that  we'll  be  in  the  war  in  another 
month  or  two.  Will  you  go?" 

"Beeckman's  an  ass,"  answered  Gerald  irrit- 
ably. 

"But  would  you  go?"  persisted  the  girl. 

"  Good  Lord,  Theodora,  how  you  shoot  questions 
at  a  fellow!  No  one  can  cross  a  bridge  until  he 
comes  to  it.  ...  Of  course  I'd  go,  if  other 
chaps  did." 

"But  what  difference  would  that  make?"  de- 
manded the  unwise  Theodora.  "Wouldn't  you 
choose  for  yourself?" 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  nuts  to  you,"  replied  the 
charming  Gerald,  "to  have  me  blind,  and  armless, 
and  legless.  That's  about  the  point  of  view  of  the 


292  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

ordinary  hysterical  female — provided  she  herself 
sits  safe!" 

At  that  very  moment,  Alan  Beeckman  joined 
them.  Coming  from  behind  them  while  they 
talked,  Theodora  was  almost  sure  he  had  overheard 
Gerald's  last  speech.  Thinking  to  make  light  of 
it,  she  asked  laughingly : 

"  Mr.  Beeckman,  would  you  call  me  an  ordinary 
hysterical  female?" 

Under  the  circumstances  it  wasn't  a  very  clever 
thing  to  do,  but  she  was  surprised  at  the  sudden 
look  of  wrath  that  leaped  to  Gerald's  eyes.  With- 
out giving  Beeckman  a  chance  to  reply,  he  said 
levelly : 

"Mr.  Beeckman' s  opinion  of  you  in  not  vital 
to  me,  Theodora — unless,  indeed,  he  knows  you 
better  than  I've  been  privileged  to,  which  I  hope 
is  not  the  case." 

The  girl  looked  as  though  she  had  been  struck. 
Beeckman,  who  had  just  sat  down,  sprang  to  his 
feet.  The  hot  colour  surged  into  his  face,  and  his 
lips  almost  formed  the  word  "cur."  Then,  with- 
out as  much  as  glancing  at  Gerald,  he  looked 
straight  into  Theodora's  eyes  and  said: 

"Are  you  bathing  this  morning,  Miss  Winthrop? 
Yes?  Then  I'll  see  you  at  the  beach."  And  he 
raised  his  hat  and  walked  off. 

Somehow,  the  look  that  she  caught  on  his  face 
as  he  turned  away  became  one  of  Theodora's  most 
precious  memories.  Naturally,  neither  she  nor 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  293 

Beeckman  ever  referred  to  the  incident,  although 
they  came  soon  to  have  more  and  more  time  to- 
gether. Gerald's  temporary  vigilance  and  aggres- 
sive proprietorship  speedily  relaxed;  there  were 
other  fish  to  fry.  A  certain  little  vaudeville  ac- 
tress appeared  upon  the  scene  and  immediately 
became  the  pursued  of  all  masculine  pursuers. 
Theodora  was  not  a  little  astounded  at  the  frank- 
ness with  which  she  was  discussed.  One  heard  the 
name  of  the  man  who  had  given  her  her  pearls,  of 
the  one  who  was  paying  her  present  bills,  of  the 
other  with  whom  she  had  been  stopping  in  Paris 
when  the  war  broke  out,  and  so  on,  indefinitely. 
She  was  as  pretty  as  a  nymph,  and  apparently  as 
soulless.  Whenever  and  wherever  she  appeared, 
she  was  the  immediate  cynosure  of  all  eyes. 

Very  early  in  the  game,  she  began  to  bestow 
some  of  her  choicest  smiles  on  Gerald  Wyatt.  He 
couldn't,  of  course,  notice  her  when  Theodora  was 
near;  but  there  came  to  be  more  and  more  times 
when  Theodora  was  not  near — or  rather,  when  he 
was  not  near  Theodora.  The  girl  to  whom  he  was 
engaged  would  naturally  be  the  last  to  hear  gossip 
about  him — thanks  to  the  perverted  blindfolding 
system  so  decried  by  Marguerite.  She  it  was,  in 
effect,  who  finally  cut  the  knot  of  conventional 
silence. 

"Theodora,"  she  said,  "if  I  were  you,  I'd  get 
Gerald  out  of  this  place  in  double-quick  time. 
It's  simply  scandalous  for  him  to  be  acting  as  he 


294  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

is,  right  under  your  nose.  It  might  be  all  very  well 
for  a  man  without  ties;  but  for  one  in  Gerald's 
position,  it's  insulting  and  disgusting." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Marguerite?" 
asked  Theodora  rather  wearily. 

"  I'm  talking  about  Gerald  and  that  little  cat  of 
an  actress — and  so  is  everyone  else  in  the  place 
but  you.  He's  rushing  her  till  it's  the  scandal  of 
the  season.  I'll  bet  you're  the  only  person  here 
who  doesn't  know  of  the  affair." 

"And  what  do  you  think  I  should  do?" 

"  Make  a  row  and  get  the  family  to  start  home 
at  once.  I'll  back  you.  I'd  do  it  myself,  only 
it's  none  of  my  business,  if  you  don't  care.  But 
'don't  know'  and  'don't  care'  are  two  very  differ- 
ent things.  .  .  .  We're  going  in  a  week  anyhow ; 
just  make  them  hustle  it  up  a  bit." 

"I  couldn't  make  a  fuss,  Marguerite.  I  don't 
believe  I  could  make  you  understand  how  much  I 
hate  to  discuss  my  private  affairs  with  anyone; 
I'd  rather  just  speak  to  Gerald  and  tell  him  what 
I've  heard,  if  you  really  think  there's  any  necessity 
for  it.  But  I  can  assure  you  I'd  be  very  sorry  to 
believe  half  the  things  I  hear  here — 

"Bosh,  Theodora!  Don't  be  a  fool.  Take  my 
word  for  it,  you'd  better  believe  this.  And  you'll 
be  wise  to  speak  to  Gerald — or  to  someone.  It's 
high  time  somebody  did  some  talking." 

Theodora  accordingly  spoke  to  Gerald,  but  she 
merely  succeeded  in  driving  him  into  a  fury.  He 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  295 

denied  everything,  and  demanded  to  know  "what 
cat  had  been  talking."  Theodora's  greatest  sur- 
prise in  the  whole  affair  was  not  Gerald's  attitude 
— but  her  own.  She  seemed  to  be  getting  callous, 
so  little  did  the  report  really  affect  her. 

"  I've  had  too  much  of  this  sort  of  life,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "I'm  getting  hardened,  like  the  rest  of 
them.  It  will  be  good  to  get  out  of  it  all,  and  into 
a  quieter  cleaner  atmosphere.  When  I'm  home 
again,  I'm  going  to  thresh  out  a  lot  of  things,  all  by 
myself." 

But  in  spite  of  his  temper,  the  warning  had  a 
salutary  effect  on  Gerald.  He  was  still  as  anxious 
as  ever  to  have  Theodora  for  his  wife — little  as  he 
was  willing  to  forego  for  her  sake.  And  when  he 
saw  himself  in  danger  of  losing  her,  he  was  wise 
enough  to  pull  up.  He  became  quite  charming  and 
devoted  again — thus  redoubling  the  problems  of 
Theodora. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  trip  home  was  that  detestable  thing — an 
anti-climax.  Mr.  Wyatt  was  anxious  to  get  back 
into  the  thick  of  affairs;  he  had  not  his  son's  gift 
for  leisure,  and  he  had  been  eating  too  much  and 
sleeping  too  little — a  combination  almost  sure  to 
turn  a  man  of  his  sort  into  a  pessimist.  Mrs. 
Wyatt  divided  her  time  between  chanting  Gerald's 
praises  to  Theodora,  and  reminiscing  about  the 
new  friends  she  had  made,  and  of  how  useful  they 
might  prove;  in  both  roles  she  was  less  than  inter- 
esting and  more  than  tiresome.  Marguerite  was 
cross  and  snappy;  Gerald  was  chatty  and  bored; 
and  Theodora  spent  her  hours  avoiding  t6te-a- 
t£tes  with  him  (a  thing  which  is  fortunately  easy  to 
do  in  a  private  car,  where  it  is  much  more  difficult 
to  accomplish  a  tete-a-tete  than  to  avoid  one),  and 
in  pushing  retrospection  into  the  dim  future. 

One  great  piece  of  good  fortune  (from  Theodora's 
point  of  view)  awaited  their  return.  A  telegram 
called  Gerald  to  Chicago,  where  he  was  to  be  best 
man  at  the  wedding  of  a  college  chum.  The  wed- 
ding was  being  hurried  on  account  of  the  gathering 
war-clouds  which  everyone  knew  must  soon  break ; 

296 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  297 

America  could  no  longer  avoid  entrance  into  the 
World  War,  and  her  sons  and  daughters  held  up 
their  heads  once  more  when  they  realized  that  their 
leash  was  at  last  to  be  loosed.  But  in  spite  of  their 
relief,  there  was  a  permeating  feeling  of  sadness  and 
dread.  The  Chicago  wedding,  however,  was  not 
to  be  weighted  by  sorrow;  there  were  to  be  "high 
old  jinks,"  and  Gerald's  presence  was  indispensa- 
ble. It  would  be  hard  to  say  to  which  of  the  two 
the  summons  was  a  greater  relief — Gerald  himself, 
or  his  fiancee. 

And  so  at  last,  there  came  to  Theodora  the 
chance  to  thresh  out  all  her  problems  unhampered, 
and  she  used  it  to  advantage.  Her  thinking  time 
was  night ;  she  was  sure  then  not  to  be  interrupted. 
Through  the  days  she  walked  in  a  semi -trance, 
like  a  woman  with  a  dual  personality.  One  half 
of  her  was  the  conventional  old-time  Theodora,  the 
girl  who  chatted  with  the  family,  answered  ques- 
tions about  her  trip,  read  aloud  to  her  mother, 
helped  with  the  familiar  household  tasks — even 
dusted  the  drawing-room,  in  which  no  one  ever  now 
played  Bridge.  The  other  half  was  thinking  sub- 
consciously, "Soon,  now,  they'll  know  that  it's 
all  over.  When  Gerald  comes  back,  I'll  have  to 
tell  him,  and  them.  I  wish  I'd  done  it  before  he 
went.  I  wish  I  could  write  it;  but  it  would  be 
useless.  He'd  only  come  back  and  make  me  do  it  all 
over  again."  Thus,  through  the  days  she  admitted 
the  facts;  but  at  night  she  admitted  the  reasons. 


298  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

There  was  but  one  thing  that  she  could  tell  Ger- 
ald :  that  the  love  which  he  had  promised  had  failed 
to  come,  and  that  without  it  she  could  not  marry. 
It  would  be  vain  to  charge  him  with  his  growing 
carelessness,  to  plead  her  constantly  increasing 
distrust,  to  paint  the  picture  she  was  coming  to 
have  of  what  married  life  with  him  would  be,  to 
convince  him  of  how  much  better  a  thing  it  should 
really  be,  to  discuss  the  incompatibility  of  stand- 
ards in  the  two  families.  Gerald  would  hotly  deny 
the  carelessness,  he  would  wax  bitter  over  the  dis- 
trust, he  would  tell  her  that  she  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  marriage,  and  the  subject  of  family 
standards  was  unmentionable.  There  remained 
but  one  valid  objection  which  he  could  not  gainsay. 
And  though  he  might  rage,  he  could  not  coerce. 

It  would  have  been  enough  that  Theodora  did 
not  the  love  the  man  she  had  promised  to  marry, 
but  it  was  as  nothing  compared  with  the  flood  of 
certainty  that  at  last  surged  through  her  heart  that 
she  did  love  another  man — and  a  man,  at  that, 
who  had  never  even  mentioned  love  nor  marriage 
to  her,  and  who  was  himself  engaged  to  another 
woman.  Theodora  knew  now  what  had  been  the 
nature  of  that  vague  and  lovely  thing  that  had 
entered  her  heart  a  year  ago — it  had  been  the  first 
tender  shoot  of  the  exquisite  plant  called  Love. 
Its  fragrance  had  permeated  her  days,  making  the 
past  negligible,  the  present  rose-hued,  and  the 
future  golden-bright.  And  then,  before  she  had  as 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  299 

.much  as  grasped  the  meaning  of  this  new  feel  of 
life,  along  had  come  the  tempest — uprooting  her 
little  plant  and  leaving  it  to  wither. 

It  had  been  the  haunting  memory  that  there 
existed  such  things  as  the  plant  and  its  wonderful 
perfume,  that  had  made  Theodora  first  fear  to  en- 
gage herself  to  Gerald.  All  through  her  affair  with 
him,  her  heart  had  beat  so  sanely,  her  pulses  had 
lain  so  quiet,  her  poise  had  been  so  normal.  There 
had  been  none  of  that  foolish  certainty  that  some- 
thing was  about  to  glorify  life,  and  that  nothing 
really  mattered,  except  that  one  was  alive  and 
young  and  not  too  hideously  unattractive.  There 
had  never  existed  that  wonderful  feeling  that  right 
around  the  next  corner  one  would  suddenly  catch 
up  with  perpetual  bliss.  An  experienced  woman 
would  instantly  have  recognized  the  symptoms 
that  had  merely  made  Theodora  wonder  throbbing- 
ly  through  the  past  two  winters ;  a  cynical  woman 
would  have  said  to  herself,  "Here's  another  affair. 
Now  I  shall  be  restless  and  unhappily  happy  till 
it's  over" ;  a  romantic  woman  would  have  thrilled 
to  the  thought,  "At  last,  true  love  has  found  me!" 
Poor  dear  Theodora,  being  neither  experienced,  nor 
cynical,  nor  especially  romantic,  had  no  clue  to 
her  mystery. 

But  now,  at  last,  she  faced  the  truth.  She  made 
her  bitter  self-confession.  She  loved  a  man  who 
liked  her.  And  that  is  tragedy.  She  knew  that 
Alan  was  her  friend,  she  knew  that  he  was  fond  of 


300  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

her ;  but  that  was  less  than  enough.  A  warm  little 
thrill  ran  through  her  as  she  recalled  the  look  on  his 
face  when  Gerald  had  made  that  insulting  remark. 
However,  any  decent  man  would  have  resented 
that.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Alan  was  her 
champion  and  her  friend — but  the  fact  remained 
that  he  was  the  betrothed  of  another  woman.  It 
seemed  strange  that  the  engagement  should  never 
have  been  announced,  and  that  the  marriage 
should  have  been  so  long  delayed — also  that  Helen 
Burrill  should  have  gone  to  England  alone.  Still, 
in  speaking  of  that,  Alan  had  first  chanted  her 
praises  and  had  then  added,  "We'll  all  be  over 
there  by  this  time  next  year."  Probably  Miss 
Burrill  had  simply  preceded  him;  probably  they 
didn't  want  to  marry  till  the  war  was  over.  In  any 
case,  Theodora's  own  position  remained  unchanged 
— she  had  given  her  love  unasked  and  unsought. 
Poor  dear  Theodora,  with  her  pride  and  her  sensi- 
tiveness, and  her  inability  to  extract  comfort  from 
self-deception  or  tears! 

To  her  joy,  Gerald's  stay  was  greatly  lengthened. 
He  visited  one  friend  after  another,  and  long  before 
he  returned,  America  was  at  war.  Private  quar- 
rels lost  importance  in  the  face  of  all  that  came  to 
pass. 

Dear  old  Ned  enlisted  at  once;  he  wouldn't  even 
wait  for  Plattsburg  and  a  possible  commission. 
He  wanted  to  get  "over  there"  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. He  could  have  stayed  at  Yale  and  trained 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  301 

in  the  artillery;  he  could  have  enlisted  in  that 
vague  branch  of  the  service  known  as  the  naval 
reserves  (immediately  so  overcrowded  with  ap- 
plications) ,  and  so  have  deferred  his  going  indefi- 
nitely; he  could  have  chosen  the  air  service  and 
the  probability  of  an  instructorship ;  and  he  had 
his  girl  as  an  excuse.  But  his  one  idea  was  to  get 
into  the  trenches  and  avenge  his  country's  honour. 

Mrs.  Charrington  was  simply  splendid.  Ned 
was  the  apple  of  her  eye,  but  she  had  no  thought  of 
holding  him  back.  She  detested  weakness  to  the 
point  of  never  even  wanting  to  see  it  around  her. 
She  tolerated  no  tears — at  any  rate,  no  public  ones 
—and  asked  for  no  sympathy ;  she  made  no  plaint. 
Theodora,  watching  admiringly,  realized  that  the 
same  sternness  which  used  to  make  Aunt  Augusta 
so  unapproachable,  was  now  showing  its  reverse 
side  of  magnificent  strength.  Had  she  been  softer, 
she  would  have  been  more  lovable ;  but  she  couldn't 
have  been  finer. 

Gerald  came  home,  and  Theodora  braced  herself 
to  her  task.  She  broke  the  engagement  on  their 
first  meeting,  and  it  was  even  worse  than  she  had 
expected.  She  had  not  made  sufficient  allowance 
for  Gerald's  vanity.  He  was  furious.  Theodora 
heard  herself  called  a  "jealous  cat,"  a  "common 
jilt,"  and  a  "fool."  But  she  was  obdurate,  and 
the  man  finally  took  himself  off  in  high  dudgeon, 
leaving  the  girl  to  break  the  news  to  her  family. 

Mrs.  Winthrop  said,  "You  know  best,  of  course, 


302  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

my  dear.  I  wouldn't  have  you  marry  a  man  you 
didn't  love."  But  she  plainly  showed  her  disap- 
pointment. Having  come  to  regard  her  daughter's 
future  as  splendidly  assured,  she  was  now  thrown 
back  to  the  old  standpoint  of  worried  uncertainty. 

Aunt  Augusta  merely  said,  "I'm  very  glad  to 
hear  it.  That  is  the  best  news  I've  had  in  some 
time."  Whatever  other  fault  might  be  charged  to 
Aunt  Augusta,  she  was  certainly  consistent. 

Meta  said,  "Oh,  Theodora!  Really?"— which 
was  about  as  much  as  one  could  expect  of  Meta. 

But  in  the  eyes  of  Elise  when  she  came  to  hear 
the  news,  there  shone  a  hard  sort  of  triumph. 
"What  happened?"  she  asked,  holding  one  of  her 
rings  up  to  the  light  and  watching  the  sparks  of 
light  its  gems  threw  out. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  answered  Theodora  coldly. 

"How  remarkable!  I  suppose  you  simply  said, 
'Well,  good-bye;  I'm  through';  and  he  said,  'All 
right;  just  as  you  please."  (Elise  was  plainly 
feeling  her  way ;  mocking  at  everything,  yet  trying 
to  elicit  news.)  "Did  you  give  back  his  gifts?" 
she  continued. 

"Certainly.  Do  you  think  I  should  have  kept 
them?" 

"That,  of  course,  is  a  matter  of  taste.  And  now 
I  suppose  that  he's  heartbroken  and  that  he  will 
fly  away  from  Waverly  again?" 

(So  that  was  what  she  had  been  driving  at! 
There  had  been  something  between  them.  The 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  303 

violet  letter  was  from  her,  and  Gerald  had  lied. 
Theodora  had  been  sure  of  it,  but  here  was  proof. 
Oh,  how  glad  she  was,  how  glad,  to  be  finally  ex- 
tricated from  the  disgusting  tissue  of  falsehood  and 
deceit !) 

As  Theodora's  romance  died,   Ned's  flowered 
into  perfect  life.     He  had  been  ordered  to  a  con- 
centration camp,  and  the  chances  were  that  his 
would  be  one  of  the  first  divisions  to  be  sent  over- 
seas.    In  order  to  be  near  him  while  he  stayed,  in 
order  to  follow  him  when  he  went  (orders  to  the 
contrary  not  yet  having  been  issued),  Marjorie 
insisted  on  marrying  him  at  once,  and  there  be- 
came immediately  apparent  one  of  the  first  great 
effects  of  even  an  embryo  war — its  power  to  wipe 
out  the  false  and  conventional  and  to  replace  them 
with  the  elemental  and  the  genuine.     Whereas  in 
the  days  but  so  lately  gone  by,  the  attitude  of 
Society  (with  a  capital  S)  would  have  been :  "  Here 
is  a  rich  girl,  and  here  is  a  poor  man.     She  is  fash- 
ionable while  he  has  not  the  price  to  be.     There- 
fore, though  they  love  each  other  and  no  other 
barrier  to  their  union  exists,  this  alone  is  sufficient" 
— whereas  this  would  but  recently  have  been  the 
great  ultimatum,  and  those  who  had  failed  to  bow 
to  it  would  have  been  rebels  and  outcasts,  with  the 
coming  of  War,  its  cheapness  became  so  apparent 
that  it  was  speedily  overthrown.     Human  beings, 
hearing  the  blare  of  trumpets,  the  roll  of  drums,  the 
call  to  arms,  seeing  the  unfurled  banners  and  the 


304  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

men  who  hurried  to  their  support,  felt  stirring 
within  their  breasts  something  which  was  an  in- 
heritance from  long-gone  ancestors  who  lived  when 
love  and  war  flourished,  and  when  conventions 
had  not  yet  been  made.  This  stirring  thing,  once 
uncovered  and  disembarrassed  of  the  dust  of  ages, 
proved  to  be  a  heart — but  a  heart  so  warped  as 
scarcely  to  be  recognizable  from  a  diamond,  or  a 
club,  or  even  a  spade  with  which  to  dig  the  graves 
•of  dead  hopes.  Uncovered,  it  began  to  stretch; 
stretching,  it  came  to  resume  its  former  shape  and 
functions.  And  lo,  presently  men  found  them- 
selves saying,  ' '  Here  are  a  man  and  a  maid.  They 
are  clean  and  good,  and  they  love  each  other  de- 
votedly. Therefore,  there  being  no  real  deterrent, 
it  follows  that  they  must  wed." 

When  the  great  balance-sheets  are  cast,  that  one 
item — the  resurrection  in  human  hearts — must 
certainly  be  entered  to  the  credit  of  war.  It  is 
not  claimed  that  hearts  will  never  again  grow  cold, 
that  dust  will  never  more  collect  upon  them.  But 
at  least  they  have  had  a  fresh  start,  and  by  the 
very  nature  of  things  it  must  be  long  before  they 
can  again  be  quite  as  frigid,  quite  as  buried,  as  in 
the  days  immediately  preceding  their  awakening. 

So  much  for  hearts  in  general.  As  for  the  partic- 
ular hearts  of  Marjorie  Gary  and  Ned  Charrington, 
they  cried,  "Do  not  separate  us  unnecessarily." 
As  for  the  hearts  of  their  elders,  they  responded 
fittingly,  ' '  Our  children  are  right.  We  must  give 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  305 

them  their  chance  at  life,  even  as  we  have  had 
ours." 

So  Marjorie  and  Ned  were  married  in  a  tiny 
church  near  his  camp.  The  wedding  was  of  the 
simplest,  none  but  the  nearest  relatives  being 
present.  Mrs.  Charrington  went  over,  and  Elise 
(being  the  only  other  member  of  the  family  who 
could  afford  the  trip)  accompanied  her.  Oh,  how 
Theodora  longed  to  go — for  many  reasons !  But  it 
was  out  of  the  question. 

Ned  had  already  received  his  degree  from  college, 
and  he  was  granted  a  three-days  leave  for  his 
wedding-trip.  A  bungalow  near  the  camp  was 
found  for  the  little  bride.  When  Ned  went  over- 
seas, she  was  to  follow  immediately,  and  to  do 
canteen  work.  And  this,  thought  Theodora,  was 
the  spoiled  and  pampered  Marjorie  Gary! 

During  the  absence  of  Elise  at  the  wedding^ 
Meta  brought  her  little  nephew  home,  the  better 
to  take  care  of  him.  Theodora  was  astounded  at 
the  temporary  transformation  in  this  meek  and 
homely  cousin  of  hers.  With  the  baby  entirely 
her  own  for  the  time  being,  Meta  was  a  happy 
woman.  Her  voice  cooed  caressingly  during  bath 
hours  and  bottle  times.  She  bustled  smilingly 
about  her  household  tasks,  the  mere  fact  that  the 
child  was  sleeping  in  the  room  above,  or  that  she 
was  presently  to  wheel  him  through  the  shady 
village  streets,  being  sufficient  to  glorify  her  entire 
day. 


306  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Theodora  to  her  mother, 
4 'all  that  Meta  needs  in  life  is  the  shadow  of  happi- 
ness. If  she  could  have  that  baby  to  keep,  she'd 
never  want  another  thing.  I  wish  she  could 
afford  to  adopt  one." 

"Oh,  my  dear  I"  cried  Mrs.  Winthrop,  "that 
would  be  a  terrible  risk!  And  it  wouldn't  be 
the  same  thing  at  all." 

"  No, "  admitted  Theodora.  ' '  This  baby  is  our 
own  blood.  And  then  beside,  Meta  was  fond  of  his 
father  before  Elise  got  her  clutches  on  him." 

"My  child!"  exclaimed  the  shocked  parent. 

"Oh,  mother  dear,  for  goodness*  sake  don't  be 
so  timid.  I  only  said  what  you  thought.  People 
discuss  things  nowadays,  instead  of  swallowing 
them  and  choking  on  them.  Just  wait  till  I  get 
you  out  into  the  world,  and  see  what  shocks  you'll 
get!" 

"I  prefer  the  old  way,"  insisted  Mrs.  Winthrop 
with  gentle  dignity. 

"Well,  I  don't,  "responded  the  fearless  Theodora. 
"Waverly  ideas  and  Waverly  strictures  are  getting 
more  and  more  on  my  nerves  with  every  passing 
day." 

"Poor  child,"  thought  the  parent.  "She  has 
had  much  to  bear.  I  must  be  patient  with  her. ' ' 

' '  Poor  mother, ' '  thought  the  daughter.  ' '  She's 
never  had  a  chance.  "I  must  be  patient  with 
her." 

Yet  with  all  their  consciousness  of  forbearance, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  307 

each  of  these  two  burned  to  regulate  the  other's 
life, — a  sad  mistake,  no  doubt,  yet  one  which  every 
human  being  insists  on  making  at  some  time  or 
another. 

Aunt  Augusta  came  home  perfectly  in  love  with 
her  new  daughter-in-law.  Elise,  on  the  contrary, 
didn't  think  her  either  pretty  or  attractive. 

From  both  of  them  Theodora  tried  to  elicit  the 
particular  information  that  she  wanted.  But  all 
that  she  could  ascertain  was  that  there  had  been 
but  one  Mr.  Beeckman  at  the  wedding,  and  he  was 
addressed  as  "Van."  He,  by  the  way,  was  the 
only  guest  for  whom  Elise  had  a  word  of  praise. 
With  him,  she  seemed  to  have  hit  it  off  wonderfully. 

As  the  days  went  on,  and  Theodora  wrote  to  Ned 
and  Marjorie,  she  asked  them  about  Alan  and  his 
whereabouts.  But  the  very  detachment  with 
which  she  self-consciously  put  her  question,  ended 
by  defeating  her  purpose.  Neither  of  them  re- 
membered to  answer  it.  Just  once,  Marjorie  re- 
ferred to  it.  "Yes,"  she  wrote,  "dear  old  Alan 
is  in  the  service,  too."  And  that  was  all  that 
Theodora  ever  heard.  She  couldn't  very  well 
write  and  say,  "Won't  you  please  make  a  point  of 
telling  him  that  my  engagement  is  broken?"  And 
even  if  she  could,  what  good  would  it  do?  Her 
engagement  wouldn't  affect  his. 

She  received  a  very  trying  call  from  Mrs.  Wyatt, 
who  came  to  plead  her  son's  cause.  "I'm  sur- 


308  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

prised  to  find  you  so  hard,  Theodora,"  mourned 
that  disappointed  parent.  "We  were  all  so  fond 
of  you.  And  Gerald  has  always  been  so  attractive 
to  the  ladies ;  lots  of  them  nearly  broke  their  necks 
trying  to  catch  him.  I  shouldn't  think  you'd 
want  to  drive  him  to  doing  something  rash.  Ger- 
ald's very  unhappy  about  the  way  you've  treated 
him,  and  he  says  you've  had  no  fight.  Now  a  girl 
can't  expect  a  fellow  to  chase  her  as  hard  after  he's 
caught  her  as  he  did  before.  I  don't  think  nice 
girls  ought  to  like  those  kind  of  things  anyhow. 
Only  actresses  and  fast  women.  .  .  .  We  all 
want  you  in  the  family,  and  we  think  you'd  be  so 
good  for  Gerald.  And  he  could  give  you  all  the 
things  you  haven't  got.  ...  I  wouldn't  be  so 
foolish  if  I  was  you." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Wyatt,"  cried  poor  Theodora, 
"don't  let  us  argue  about  it.  It  can  do  no  good. 
I  can't  tell  you  how  I  appreciate  your  kindness; 
it's  sweet  of  you  to  want  me.  It  breaks  my  heart 
to  seem  ungrateful,  but  indeed  I  have  no  choice! " 

Mrs.  Wyatt  wiped  away  a  genuine  tear.  ' ' Every- 
thing seems  to  be  going  to  pieces  anyhow, "  she  said. 
Theodora  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Gerald 
was  about  to  enlist. 

"I  know,"  she  sympathized.  "Things  are  aw- 
fully sad.  Is  Gerald  going  to  enlist  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Wyatt  did  not  meet  her  questioning  eyes. 
"No,"  she  replied.  "He  isn't  strong  enough. 
The  doctor  won't  listen  to  it." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  309 

"Not  strong  enough!"  echoed  Theodora,  with 
immediate  thoughts  of  dancing,  and  swimming, 
and  tennis,  and  nights  without  sleep. 

"No.  He  looks  stronger  than  what  he  is.  He's 
had  a  weak  heart  ever  since  he  was  little.  The  doc- 
tor says  military  life  would  be  the  death  of  him." 

"Oh,"  said  Theodora.     "I  see." 

Mrs.  Wyatt  took  a  mournful  and  rather  accusa- 
tory departure.  Behind  her  she  left  a  very  un- 
comfortable girl.  How,  thought  Theodora,  was 
she  ever  to  stand  the  coming  summer  in  Waverly? 
It  meant  a  return  to  cramped  poverty.  It  meant 
the  inability  to  help  (for  though  she  put  in  many 
hours  in  the  Red  Cross  rooms  which  Waverly  now 
boasted,  and  though  she  never  sat  down  without  a 
piece  of  army  knitting  in  her  hands,  that  wasn't 
enough).  It  meant  that  she  must  again  be  super- 
vised by  the  Misses  Duncan,  and  that  she  must 
constantly  meet  the  Wyatt  set  in  public  places 
such  as  the  station  platform.  Unfortunately,  by 
this  time  and  thanks  to  her  visit  at  the  Wyatts' 
city  home,  she  had  at  least  a  bowing  acquaintance 
with  the  entire  crowd. 

Meta  was  absorbed  in  the  baby.  Ned  was  gone. 
Elise  grew  more  detestable  daily.  Aunt  Augusta 
had  that  trying  kind  of  sadness  that  hotly  resents 
comforting.  Except  for  her  mother's  presence, 
there  was  nothing  to  make  Waverly  life  bearable 
to  Theodora.  And  her  mother  could  be  moved  if 
the  money  could  be  made. 


310  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Three  or  four  days  after  Mrs.  Wyatt's  fruitless 
call,  Marguerite's  card  was  brought  up.  It  was 
with  some  little  trepidation  that  Theodora  went 
to  receive  her;  but  as  it  turned  out,  Marguerite's 
visit  was  one  of  congratulation  purely. 

"You're  well  out  of  it,  Theodora,"  she  said. 
And  in  proof  of  her  statement,  she  proceeded  to 
make  a  series  of  the  most  startling  revelations. 

"Oh,  Marguerite,"  cried  Theodora,  "don't  tell 
me  any  more.  These  things  can't  matter  to  me 
now." 

"I  just  want  to  show  you  that  you've  made  no 
mistake.  You'd  have  had  a  hell  of  a  life,  believe 
me.  Men,  Theodora,  have  no  hearts.  Most 
women  have  none,  either.  But  if  you  ever  do 
happen  to  run  into  a  heart,  it  will  be  sure  to  be  a 
woman's.  Men  are  bunches  of  selfishness  and  self- 
indulgence  and  passion  and  desire.  That's  all." 

"Don't  say  such  things,"  begged  Theodora. 
"You  think  your  father  has  a  heart,  don't  you? " 

"Indeed  I  don't;  and  neither  would  you  if  you 
knew  the  things  he's  done  to  make  his  pile.  He'd 
knife  his  best  friend  in  the  back.  He's  done  it." 

"But  his  family?' 

"Affections,  perhaps;  and  pride  and  habit. 
That's  about  all.  If  my  mother  should  die,  I  bet 
he'd  marry  inside  a  year.  If  I  should  die,  it  would 
be  a  relief.  If  Gerald  should  die,  he'd  mourn  be- 
cause of  the  name — that's  his  pride.  But  if  you 
want  to  see  him  show  real  feeling,  just  watch  any 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  311 

one  trying  to  get  the  better  of  him  in  a  deal !  Ger- 
ald and  I  inherit  our  coldness  from  him.  Mother's 
weak  and  silly,  but  she  really  has  a  heart.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  Gerald  is  just  adding  one  more  to  his 
list  of  charms.  He's  a  slacker.  His  one  thought 
at  present  is  how  to  keep  out  of  danger  without 
making  himself  look  cheap — a  sort  of  'what-can- 
I-do-to-be-saved '  attitude!  As  I  say,  you're  well 
out  of  it  all.  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?  " 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  replied  Theodora,  and  ex- 
plained how  she  was  placed. 

"  You're  abrick,"  cried  Marguerite  unexpectedly. 
"To  need  money  as  much  as  that,  and  to  turn 
Gerald  down!  I  bet  I  can  help  you  find  a  job. 
You  know,  all  this  war  work  is  going  to  give  women 
chances  at  wonderful  wages.  One  of  my  friends 
wrote  me  the  other  day  that  her  former  cook  was 
getting  forty  dollars  a  week  in  one  of  the  new  fac- 
tories, and  that,  without  brains  or  education.  But 
you  mustn't  go  into  a  factory.  There  are  better 
things  than  that  for  an  intelligent  woman  like 
you.  You  couldn't  enlist,  I  suppose?" 

"Enlist?" 

"Yes,  as  a  yeowoman.  But  you'd  be  in  just  as 
tight  as  a  soldier  or  a  sailor.  If  your  mother  were 
sick  again,  you  couldn't  get  out." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that,  then." 

"No,  I  supposed  not.  The  women's  Motor 
Service  will  all  be  voluntary.  So  will  most  of  the 
Red  Cross  work.  You  couldn't  go  to  a  Hostess 


312  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

House  at  one  of  the  cantonments  because  of  your 
mother.  You  don't  know  stenography,  of  course ? ' ' 

"Unfortunately  not.  I  could  learn  it,  but  it 
takes  so  long." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  wouldn't  take  long — a  switch- 
board. I  know  a  girl  who  is  going  to  study  that. 
The  Government  will  need  telephone  service,  and 
they  say  if  you  are  fluent  in  French  you'll  be  able 
to  get  as  much  as  thirty  or  thirty -five  a  week " 

"Thirty-five!" 

' '  Yes.     Would  you  take  that  ? ' ' 

"Would  I  take  it?  It  would  be  heaven.  My 
mother  and  I  could  live  on  it,  and  have  something 
to  give  away!" 

Marguerite' s  shrewd  eyes  softened.  ' '  Well, ' '  she 
said  brusquely  (she  prided  herself  on  her  lack  of 
emotion),  "if  you  could,  you  certainly  deserve  it. 
This  girl's  position  was  to  be  in  New  York 

"Oh,"  interrupted  Theodora  breathlessly,  "I'd 
love  to  get  one  there.  I'd  far  rather  be  there  than 
here." 

"I  think  you're  right.  The  field's  bigger,  and 
you  ought  to  get  in  ahead  of  the  rush.  I'll  write 
to  my  friend  about  you  tonight.  She's  to  take  a 
three  weeks'  course  at  the  switchboard  for  ten 
dollars,  and  then  to  step  into  this  thirty -five-dollar 
job.  If  she  didn't  know  French,  she'd  have  to 
take  ten  dollars  less.  I  bet  you  could  get  your 
training  here  in  the  city — you  could  go  in  each  day ; 
and  then  perhaps  this  friend  of  mine  can  find  you  a 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  313 

position  in  New  York.  She'll  probably  have  some 
ideas  about  boarding-places,  too.  She's  a  Hart- 
ford girl,  and  her  people  have  lost  all  their  money." 

"Marguerite,"  cried  Theodora,  "I  can't  thank 
you  enough.  It  all  sounds  too  lovely  for  words. 
How  kind  you  are!" 

"Nonsense,  that's  nothing!  Look  here,  Theo- 
dora, I'm  going  to  pay  you  the  compliment  of 
treating  you  like  a  sensible  being.  ...  If  you 
happen  to  be  a  little  short,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  lend 
you  something — just  till  you're  on  your  feet,  you 
know— 

The  tears  were  very  near  Theodora's  eyes.  She 
put  out  her  hand  impulsively.  "I  have  all  I 
need,"  she  said.  "But  thank  you  just  the  same. 
You  are  kindness  itself.  .  .  .  And  you  tell  me 
that  your  mother  has  the  only  heart  in  the  family  ?  " 

Marguerite  coloured  as  though  she  had  been 
caught  in  some  peccadillo.  "Nonsense,"  she  said 
gruffly,  "that's  nothing.  Any  idiot  would  do  as 
much  for  a  pal!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ONE  November  morning  Theodora  sat  in  a  New 
York  office  at  her  switchboard.  The  hands  of  the 
clock  pointed  to  half-past  nine.  The  door  opened 
and  a  pretty  painted  girl,  who  didn't  look  more 
than  nineteen,  entered  apprehensively.  Her  eyes 
flew  to  the  clock  and  then  to  the  manager's  desk. 
A  look  of  relief  lightened  them.  The  manager's 
chair  was  empty. 

"Hasn't  the  boss  been  in  yet?"  she  demanded. 
A  dozen  girls  looked  up  from  the  nails  they  were 
manicuring  so  elaborately.  "  No,"  they  answered. 
"He's  late.  Liberty  Loan.  Gee,  M'ree,  you're 
some  lucky  baby!  Out  last  night?" 

Marie  (whose  other  name  was  Maginnis) 
nodded. 

"That  new  fella?" 

"Yep.  Some  spender,  believe  me!  Cocktails, 
champagne,  the  whole  ticket.  Say,  girls,  he  wants 
to  give  me  a  ring.  I  don't  know  as  I'll  take  it  off 
him,  though " 

"No,  you  don't!  A  swell  chance  he's  got! 
What  kind  of  a  ring?" 

"  Blue- white  diamond.     I  was  talking  about  that 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  315 

being  the  only  kind  I  liked,  and  he  said  a  pretty 
hand  like  mine  ought  to  have  one." 

"What'd  you  wear?" 

"  My  new  black  velvet." 

"Seal  coat?" 

"Hm-hm." 

"It  ain't  real,  is  it?" 

"Real?     Sure  it's  real." 

"Well,  Rosamund  says  you  can't  get  a  real  seal 
under  three  hundred." 

"You  can't,"  averred  Rosamund.  "I  was  into 
Ganter's  pricing  them,  and  the  man  told  me.  Of 
course  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  common 
places — only  Fifth  Avenue." 

"You  got  your  cheek  with  you,  ain't  you?" 
cried  Marie,  though  without  anger.  "Mine's  real 
and  it  cost  a  hundred  and  eighty.  And  it  didn't 
come  from  any  cheap  place  either.  I  guess  I 
know  as  much  about  refinement  as  you  do,  Rosa- 
mund Strauss!  .  .  .  Say,  girls,  my  fella's  going 
to  call  me  up  about  lunch.  Whichever  one  of  you 
get  the  message,  keep  it  dark  and  slip  it  to  me  on 
the  quiet,  will  you?" 

Marie  had  hardly  taken  her  seat,  adjusted  her 
head-band,  and  plugged  herself  in,  when  the  door 
opened  again  and  the  manager  entered  breezily. 
Nail-files  and  buffers  were  hastily  bundled  away, 
and  every  girl  became  absorbed  in  her  work. 

"Good-morning,  ladies."  The  manager's  voice 
was  as  crisp  and  breezy  as  his  manner. 


316  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Harmon." 

" Everyone  on  time  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  about  you,  Miss  Maginnis?" 

Marie  looked  at  him  with  limpid  eyes.  "I  was 
here,"  she  said  simply. 

"Glad  to  hear  it.  Ladies,  I  am  receiving  com- 
plaints as  to  private  use  of  these  wires.  Now,  I'm 
prepared  to  back  this  office  against  the  world ;  but 
remember,  if  I  catch  any  of  you  at  that,  it's  good- 
night nurse!  You  understand?  Have  any  of  you 
made  private  use  of  these  wires?" 

Denial  was  immediate,  unanimous,  and  indig- 
nant. 

"Very  well.  See  that  you  don't.  We  shall 
have  a  new  employee  today.  Mrs.  Byrd,  you  may 
take  her  in  charge.  She  will  sit  by  you  till  she 
learns  the  ropes."  Mr.  Harmon  walked  over  to 
Theodora.  "Well,  Miss  Winthrop,"  he  said. 
"How  about  that  extra  Liberty  bond?" 

The  colour  flew  to  Theodora's  face.  She  had 
repeatedly  told  him  that  she  was  carrying  all  she 
could  afford.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  answered,  "but 
I  couldn't  possibly." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Miss  Winthrop!  We're  all 
doing  more  than  we  can.  It  will  be  paid  by  instal- 
ments from  your  salary ' 

"  But  I've  already  taken  two  that  way,  Mr.  Har- 
mon. I  can't  spare  another  cent  from  my  salary 
if  I'm  to  pay  my  bills ' 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  317 

"Bills?  Good  Lord,  I  wish  I  knew  who  was 
going  to  pay  mine!  But  everyone's  in  the  same 
boat.  The  other  evening  I  heard  a  speech  from 
young  Hannaford  down  at  the  Club."  (Young 
Hannaford  was  one  of  New  York's  sensational 
millionaires.)  "  By  Jove,  he  was  actually  wearing 
shoes  that  had  been  tapped — he  showed  them  to 
us;  and  he  was  smoking  Meccas — the  cheapest 
things  on  the  market." 

Theodora's  lip  curled.  She  was  no  longer 
ashamed  in  the  face  of  such  specious  argument. 
However,  three  months  in  an  office  had  taught  her 
much. 

"  Mr.  Harmon,"  she  said,  "  I  know  how  wonder- 
ful the  rich  have  been.  Nothing  could  detract 
from  their  credit.  But  for  them,  I  don't  know 
where  the  country  would  be.  Just  the  same,  and 
in  spite  of  their  generosity,  they  are  still  able  to 
live  in  luxury.  All  my  shoes  are  tapped — it's  so 
much  a  matter  of  course  that  it  would  never  occur 
to  me  to  mention  it.  The  question  is  how  I  can 
go  on  wearing  shoes  at  all.  And  I  couldn't  afford  a 
club,  and  I  couldn't  afford  to  smoke.  And  though 
I'm  very  sorry,  I  cannot  take  another  bond." 

He  walked  away,  leaving  her  with  the  sensation 
of  being  in  disgrace.  She  felt  apologetic,  yet  in- 
dignant. Since  she  first  entered  that  office  she  had 
never  been  late  a  minute,  never  sick  a  day ;  she  had 
never  asked  for  a  holiday,  though  she  had  learned 
all  the  tricks  by  which  one  might  be  obtained.  She 


318  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

had  never  once  asked  another  girl  to  take  over 
any  of  her  duties,  though  she  had  often  assumed 
those  of  others.  And  yet,  because  she  would  not 
buy  a  thing  she  could  not  afford,  she  was  under  a 
cloud. 

It  was  a  pity  the  issue  had  arisen.  Theodora 
had  just  come  into  her  own  in  the  office  life.  At 
first,  the  manager  and  most  of  the  employees  had 
looked  askance  at  her.  She  was  not  the  conven- 
tional office  type.  She  wasn't  pert  and  she  wasn't 
self-assertive — at  least  not  here;  she  stuck  to  her 
work  even  when  the  "boss"  wasn't  around;  she 
asked  no  privileges;  she  was  not  impressed  with 
herself;  she  was  nervous  over  possible  mistakes  and 
sensitive  to  rebuke;  although  perfectly  pleasant 
with  everyone,  she  "kept  herself  to  herself"  and 
never  tried  to  curry  favour  nor  establish  intimacies ; 
she  was  above  gossip ;  she  was  educated  and  intelli- 
gent. Altogether,  there  had  been  an  original 
strong  prejudice  against  her,  for  the  reason  that 
she  was  actually,  in  practice,  what  an  ideal  office 
employee  is  supposed  to  be  in  principle.  There 
was  a  marked  tendency  to  regard  her  as  "toppy." 

Then,  by  dint  of  courtesy  and  fairness,  by  mind- 
ing her  own  business  and  never  putting  on  any 
1 '  side, ' '  she  had  made  her  own  place.  It  was  rath- 
er an  isolated  sort  of  place.  The  girls  attempted 
no  "dates"  with  her.  They  never  gossipped  with 
her.  The  ' '  boss ' '  never  came  and  sat  by  her  as  he 
did  by  Marie  and  some  of  the  others ;  but  he  ap- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  319 

predated  her  and  he  respected  her.  All  had  gone 
well  until  the  question  of  Liberty  bonds  had  arisen, 
and  then  the  girl  who  took  the  most  bonds  became 
the  one  to  be  favoured  and  praised. 

Probably  it  wasn't  Mr.  Harmon's  fault.  He 
seemed  worried.  The  girls  said  that  a  certain 
amount  had  to  be  subscribed  in  the  office,  and  that 
it  was  his  business  to  see  that  it  was  done.  They 
told  each  other  that  as  soon  as  the  campaign  was 
over,  he  would  be  himself  again.  No  nice  man  en- 
joys hectoring  women.  But  the  end  justified  the 
means.  It  was  really  wonderful  how  many  bonds 
those  employees  managed  to  carry. 

Again  the  office  door  opened.  Mr.  Harmon  ad- 
vanced to  meet  the  woman  who  entered,  and  Theo- 
dora glanced  up.  What  was  her  amazement  to 
recognize  Mrs.  Felton.  Mrs.  Felton's  own  sur- 
prise was  equally  great. 

"You  know  Mrs.  Felton,  Miss  Winthrop?" 
asked  Mr.  Harmon. 

"Very  well,  indeed,"  smiled  Theodora. 

"In  that  case  I'm  sorry  I  can't  put  her  in  your 
charge;  but  as  she  doesn't  speak  French  she'll 
have  to  sit  on  the  other  side." 

"Will  you  have  luncheon  with  me,  Mrs.  Felton  ? " 
asked  Theodora.  The  engagement  being  made, 
Mrs.  Felton  was  conducted  to  her  seat. 

The  office  was  popular  that  morning.  A  good- 
looking  middle-aged  man  was  the  next  comer. 
"Watch  Birdie  vamp,"  whispered  the  girls  among 


32o  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

themselves.  And  true  to  prediction,  Birdie  began 
to  ''vamp"  the  moment  she  caught  sight  of  the 
stranger.  Hastily  taking  out  a  lipstick  she  ap- 
plied it  behind  the  shelter  of  her  hand,  and  then 
rose  and  approached  Mr.  Harmon  as  though  to 
ask  a  question  relative  to  her  work.  Her  move- 
ments were  studied,  slow,  languorous;  she  might 
almost  as  well  have  been  doing  a  hula-hula  dance. 
Mr.  Harmon  finally  yielded  her  an  impatient  ear 
and  she  went  back  to  her  seat;  but  she  had  been 
seen.  It  was  not  her  fault  if  her  efforts  went  for 
naught. 

The  stranger  sat  down  at  Mr.  Harmon's  desk, 
and  a  long  earnest  conversation  was  carried  on  in 
low  tones.  Mr.  Harmon  looked  worried.  Finally, 
both  men  rose  to  leave  the  room.  Just  as  they 
reached  the  door,  Mr.  Harmon  paused  and  said : 

"Ladies,  this  office  is  below  its  quota  in  the  pre- 
sent Loan  drive.  Unless  the  amount  is  volun- 
tarily subscribed,  it  will  probably  be  deducted  from 
your  salaries,  pro  rata.  I  must  ask  you  to  remem- 
ber that  the  Government  is  paying  you  with  un- 
usual liberality;  probably  not  one  of  you  could 
make  as  much  money  anywhere  else.  You  know 
that  you  are  fortunate  in  holding  your  present 
positions.  Should  one  of  you  choose  to  leave,  her 
place  would  be  filled  before  night — I  have  a  waiting 
list  of  sixty.  All  of  this  being  true,  you  will  see 
that  there  is  no  unfairness  in  the  demand  that  a 
certain  quota  should  be  taken  up  in  this  office  dur- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  321 

ing  the  present  Loan.  Think  it  over."  And  he 
went  out,  followed  by  the  stranger. 

There  was  an  immediate  uproar.  A  little  ex- 
toe-dancer  was  the  first  to  jump  to  her  feet. 

"I  ain't  going  to  stand  for  it,"  she  cried. 
"What's  the  good  of  getting  big  money  if  they  got 
to  go  and  rake  it  all  back  again  ?  We  work  for  our 
money,  don't  we?  It's  ours.  I'll  leave.  That's 
what." 

"What'll  you  do,  Del?"  asked  someone. 

"What  do  you  s'pose?     I'll  go  back  to  dancing." 

"Business  wasn't  very  good  when  you  left,  was 
it?" 

"Well,  anyhow,  it's  getting  better " 

"Yes,  it  is !  You  know  you  couldn't  do  as  good 
as  here  if  you  was  to  die  for  it.  That's  where  they 
got  us." 

"Well,  /  could,  anyway,"  said  another. 

"Super  in  the  movies  again?" 

"No,  and  I  wouldn't  have  to  go  back  to  that, 
either.  I  got  a  friend  is  an  officer  in  the  navy. 
He  says  he'll  get  me  a  job  as  a  yeomanette  any  time 
I  like.  He  says,  'Don't  you  care  even  if  you're 
under  age  and  under  weight,  and  if  you  don't  know 
any  of  the  questions  they  ask  you.  I'll  get  you  in 
and  put  you  at  the  information  desk, '  he  says." 

"What's  it  pay?" 

"A  hundred  and  twenty  a  month,  and  your 
uniforms." 

"What!" 


322  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Sure.  Sixty  a  month,  two  dollars  a  day  for 
keep,  and  your  clothes.  So  I  guess  I  don't  have  to 
stay  here  and  get  robbed  any  longer'n  I  like." 

"What  do  you  have  to  know  to  get  that 
job?" 

"Have  to  know  a  man  that's  got  a  pull — same 
as  anything  else." 

"Don't  be  fools,  girls,"  said  a  tall  pale  girl. 
"You'll  never  do  better  than  here,  and  you  know 
it.  I  been  a  telephone  girl  seven  years,  and  I  got 
less  than  half  what  this  job  pays.  Anyhow,  your 
bonds  are  your  own.  You're  saving  your  money 
instead  of  wasting  it.  You  ain't  asked  to  give  it." 

"No,  that's  so,"  they  admitted. 

Then  an  unhealthy -looking  girl  whom  Theodora 
always  mentally  dubbed  "Calamity  Jane"  began 
her  favourite  trick  of  repeating  unflattering  re- 
marks. "Listen  here,  Del,"  she  confided,  "the 
boss  says  you  talk  too  fast  over  the  wires." 

Del  flared  at  once. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  him  about  that,  the  minute 
he  comes  in,"  she  cried. 

"No,  don't  you  do  it." 

"I  will,  too." 

"He'd  just  deny  it.  ...  Anyways,  he  said 
he  didn't  want  the  girls  to  talk  too  fast,  and  you 
know  yourself  you're  the  fastest  talker  here." 

Theodora  looked  wearily  at  the  clock.  In 
twenty  minutes  she  would  be  free  for  an  hour. 

She  and  Mrs.  Felton  left  the  room  together.     It 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  323 

transpired  that  they  had  both  brought  luncheons 
from  home. 

"It's  much  the  nicest  way,"  said  Theodora,  "as 
well  as  the  cheapest.  There's  a  very  comfortable 
rest  room  where  we  can  eat,  and  it's  always  nearly 
empty;  most  of  the  girls  prefer  to  go  out  to  the 
restaurants.  .  .  .  To  think  of  meeting  you  here! 
How  are  Mr.  Felton  and  the  children?" 

Mrs.  Felton  replied  that  they  were  all  well,  and 
the  two  proceeded  to  the  dressing-room  to  get  their 
lunch-boxes.  It  looked  like  a  Green  Room. 
Theodora  was  accustomed  to  the  sight,  but  Mrs. 
Felton  was  scandalized.  Girls  pushed  and  jostled 
for  places  at  the  mirrors.  Lipsticks,  eyebrow-pen- 
cils, and  rouge-  and  powder-boxes  held  full  sway. 

"Those  girls  aren't  decent,"  cried  Mrs.  Felton, 
the  moment  she  and  Theodora  were  alone. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  are,"  replied  Theodora.  "At 
least,  most  of  them  are.  There  are  some  excep- 
tions, I  suppose.  .  .  .  And  now,  do  tell  me  how 
you  happen  to  be  here." 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Felton  confessed,  "it  was  these 
high  wages.  I  just  couldn't  stand  everyone  else 
getting  them  and  not  have  a  chance  myself.  And 
when  I  found  I  could  have  made  ten  dollars  a  week 
more  if  I'd  known  French,  I  determined  the  chil- 
dren should  know  that  if  they  never  knew  another 
thing.  So  I  got  a  French  girl  to  look  after  them 
and  run  the  house,  and  I'm  coming  in  town  every 
day." 


324  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"How  lucky  you  were  to  find  such  a  girl!" 

"Well,  I  got  her  out  of  a  reformatory.  But  I 
guess  her  accent's  all  right.  She's  only  sixteen, 
and  she  doesn't  know  a  thing  about  cooking;  but 
they  can  get  along  on  eggs  and  milk  and  bananas." 

Time  had  evidently  changed  Mrs.  Felton  not  at 
all. 

Theodora,  questioned  about  her  own  affairs, 
told  how  she  had  now  been  in  the  office  three 
months,  living  in  a  hall  bedroom  in  order  to  save 
all  she  could  toward  her  mother  coming  to  New 
York  to  join  her.  "And  she'll  be  here  today," 
cried  the  girl,  with  shining  eyes.  "I'm  so  excited 
I  can  hardly  sit  still.  When  I  leave  the  office  at 
five  o'clock,  I  go  straight  to  the  station  to  meet 
her.  And  such  a  dear  little  home  as  we're  to 
have!  One  of  the  girls  here  had  a  tiny  flat  that 
she  wanted  to  sublet ;  her  husband  had  gone  off  to 
the  war  and  she  was  going  home  to  her  parents  in 
order  to  economize.  So  I  took  her  flat.  It's  up 
three  flights  and  there's  no  lift,  but  it  has  a  cunning 
kitchenette  and  room  enough  for  two  people  to 
live  entirely  comfortably.  I'm  too  happy  for 
words." 

Mrs.  Felton  thought  it  was  hard  to  be  happy 
when  one  remembered  how  the  plutocrats  were 
robbing  the  country  and  piling  up  huge  war  for- 
tunes for  themselves;  then  she  asked  about  the 
personnel  in  the  office. 

"Well,"  said  Theodora,  "that  beautiful  white- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  325 

haired  woman  who  sits  next  you  is  a  Mrs.  Byrd. 
She's  a  Southerner,  very  well  born  and  well  edu- 
cated, and  as  charming  a  woman  as  you'll  find 
anywhere." 

"And  taking  the  bread  out  of  poorer  women's 
mouths!" 

"  No,  I  fancy  she  needs  it  as  much  as  any  of  us — 
the  money,  I  mean.  That  tall  dark  girl  is  a  Miss 
Thayer.  It  was  through  her  that  I  got  my  posi- 
tion. I  have  a  friend  who  is  now  abroad  in  the 
Motor  Service — a  Miss  Wyatt — and  Miss  Thayer 
is  an  old  school  friend  of  hers.  Between  them, 
they  got  me  in.  There  are  three  or  four  other 
charming  girls  and  women — several  of  them  young 
wives  whose  husbands  are  in  the  service — and  the 
rest  are  movie  actresses,  toe-dancers,  telephone 
girls,  and  clerks  of  various  sorts.  None  of  us  have 
ever  made  as  much  money  in  our  lives." 

"I  suppose  the  manager  chases  those  painted 
things,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Felton. 

"Indeed  he  doesn't,"  cried  Theodora.  "If 
there's  any  chasing,  it's  certainly  the  other  way. 
The  girls  come  in  with  boxes  of  candy,  bought 
entirely  on  his  account,  and  he  hardly  ever  touches 
a  piece— 

"Ah,"  cried  Mrs.  Felton  delightedly,  "the  Orien- 
tal idea!  Propitiate  the  man!  Poor  things,  it  is 
the  fault  of  their  heredity.  They  are  not  to  blame. 
I  shall  talk  to  them.  I  shall  teach  them  how  to 
look  out  for  themselves " 


326  Poor  Dear  Theodora  ! 

Theodora  looked  dubious.  "I'd  go  at  it  rather 
carefully  if  I  were  you,"  she  suggested. 

"  Not  at  all !  It  didn't  take  me  three  minutes  to 
size  up  the  way  that  office  was  run.  A  couple  of 
dozen  women,  all  in  deadly  fear  of  one  man !  It  is 
the  curse  of  the  ages.  I  shall  write  a  paper  on  it 
the  first  moment  I  have.  And  I  shall  certainly 
teach  those  girls  the  way  to  protect  themselves." 

So  spoke  this  twentieth-century  Mrs.  Jellaby— 
ready  to  run  anyone's  job  but  her  own.  One 
half  the  time  Mrs.  Felton  so  willingly  gave  to  the 
affairs  of  others  would  have  brightened  her  own 
home  into  cosiness.  One  fourth  of  the  time  that 
she  spent  writing  useless  papers  would  have  made 
her  a  well-informed  woman.  One  tenth  of  the 
time  that  she  devoted  to  future  generations  would 
have  worked  a  transformation  in  her  own  offspring. 
And  one  hundredth  of  the  time  she  spent  in  criti- 
cism might  have  done  wonders  in  the  way  of  accom- 
plishment. But  then,  if  Mrs.  Felton  had  been 
forced  to  mind  her  own  business,  life  would  have 
had  no  savour  for  her.  She  would  rather  have  been 
dead. 

At  a  quarter  past  five  that  afternoon,  Theodora 
was  hurrying  happily  to  her  rendezvous  when  a 
hold-up  at  a  Fifth  Avenue  crossing  brought  her 
face  to  face  with  a  waiting  motor  in  which  sat 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  Two  minutes  later,  Theodora 
was  spinning  down  the  avenue  by  the  side  of  her 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  327 

former  employer,  exchanging  with  her  items  of 
news. 

"Just  think,"  said  the  girl,  "my  mother  hasn't 
seen  New  York  for  nearly  twenty  years,  and  she 
has  scarcely  slept  outside  that  Waverly  bedroom 
for  fifteen." 

"And  you've  taken  a  position  in  order  to  sup- 
port her?" 

"Her  and  myself.     She  has  a  small  income." 

"And  your  engagement  is  broken?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl  quietly.  "And  Marguerite 
Wyatt  was  the  kindest  friend  you  ever  knew.  It 
was  through  her  that  I  got  my  present  position." 

There  was  an  odd  look  in  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's 
eyes.  "I  wish  you'd  come  back  to  me,"  she 
said  impulsively.  "I've  never  had  a  compan- 
ion who  did  anything  but  rattle  around  in  your 
place." 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  curiously.  The  old 
query  rose  again  in  her  mind — why  had  she  been 
dismissed?  "That's  very  kind  of  you,"  she  re- 
plied ;  "but — my  mother,  you  see." 

"I  shall  come  and  call  on  your  mother,"  an- 
nounced Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  and  took  the  address. 
"I  am  very  much  alone  these  days,  Miss  Winthrop. 
Everyone  is  busy — and  it  is  right  that  they  should 
be.  But  there  is  no  more  of  the  old-time  visiting 
and  entertaining.  Mrs.  Delafield  Beeckman  is 
abroad  doing  canteen  work.  So,  of  course,  is 
Marjorie,  and  her  parents  simply  spend  their  lives 


328  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

in  Red  Cross  work.  Helen  Burrill  is  in  England — 
I  can't  tell  you  how  alone  I  am." 

"Has  Mr.  Alan  Beeckman  gone  yet?"  asked 
Theodora.  Her  voice  shook  as  she  put  the  ques- 
tion, and  her  heart  beat  to  suffocation.  At  last 
she  would  know  something  definite! 

"Yes,"  replied  the  old  lady.  "He  went  in  Oc- 
tober. He  is  Captain  Beeckman  now." 

Only  too  well  did  Theodora  realize  that  further 
inquiries  would  look  over-eager;  only  too  well  did 
she  realize  that  her  companion  was  waiting  to  see 
whether  she  would  make  them.  She  said  no  more. 
But  the  irony  of  it !  She  herself  had  been  in  New 
York  for  two  months  prior  to  October.  Never 
had  she  seen  a  tall  blond  man  in  uniform  that  her 
pulses  hadn't  quickened  and  that  a  wild  hope 
hadn't  leaped  to  life  that  it  might  be  Alan.  Her 
very  haste  to  get  back  to  New  York  had  been  be- 
cause of  the  chance  of  an  accidental  meeting  with 
this  man  who  had  come  to  be  a  permanent  dweller 
in  her  mind.  And  now,  that  chance  was  over. 
Yet  in  the  past  weeks  he  and  she  might  well  have 
been  within  a  few  blocks  of  each  other  time  and 
again. 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  dropped  Theodora  at  the  sta- 
tion, and  before  many  minutes  mother  and  daugh- 
ter were  clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  It  was  a 
very  dazed  Mrs.  Winthrop  who  followed  her 
daughter  to  the  cab — it  was  a  nervous  and  as- 
tounded one  who  rode  through  the  crowded  streets 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  329 

of  the  great  metropolis.  But  when  the  little 
apartment  was  finally  reached,  it  was  a  very  happy 
pair  that  explored  it  together. 

"I'm  sorry  about  the  stairs,"  apologized  Theo- 
dora, "and  I'm  sorry  I  have  to  be  away  so  much. 
But  you'll  soon  get  used  to  finding  your  way 
around,  and  there  are  so  many  lovely  things  to  do! 
There  are  provision  shops  right  in  this  block,  and 
a  little  restaurant  that  we  will  often  patronize. 
Then  we'll  have  our  evenings  and  our  Saturday 
afternoons  and  Sundays  together.  It  seems  too 
wonderful  to  be  true." 

If  there  were  drawbacks  from  the  standpoint  of 
either  parent  or  child,  they  were  never  mentioned ; 
and  the  very  refusal  to  accord  them  notice  helped 
to  minimize  them. 

The  long  evening  chat  was  a  treat  worth  waiting 
for.  "And  so  dear  Ned  went  overseas  in  Sep- 
tember," said  Theodora.  "The  darling!  And 
wasn't  Marjorie  lucky  to  get  across  too?  They 
say  that  soon  no  wives  will  be  allowed  to  go." 
There  was  a  wistful  tone  in  her  voice.  She  tried 
hard  to  guard  against  jealousy  and  that  deadliest 
of  poisons — self-pity. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Winthrop.  "Marjorie  is 
in  Paris,  and  your  Aunt  Augusta  thinks  from  Ned's 
letters  that  he  is  somewhere  in  Champagne." 

"So  I  gathered.  I  suppose  Aunt  Augusta  is  as 
wonderful  as  ever,  and  that  Meta  is  still  living  for 
everyone  but  herself.  How's  the  lovely  Elise?" 


33O  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Mrs.  Winthrop  moved  uncomfortably  and  low- 
ered her  gaze.  "What  is  it,  mother?"  demanded 
the  girl.  "What  is  she  up  to  now? " 

"She  is  behaving  very  badly,"  hesitated  the 
parent.  "If  she  continues,  she  will  break  your 
aunt's  heart,  as  well  as  Dr.  Sewall's." 

Theodora  had  a  sudden  flash  of  illumination. 
"Gerald  Wyatt?"  she  asked  point-blank. 

Mrs.  Winthrop  gasped.  "Why,  Theodora," 
she  cried.  ' '  Who  told  you  ? ' ' 

"No  one.  But  I'll  tell  you  a  few  things  about 
that  pair."  And  she  proceeded  to  a  recital  that 
scandalized  her  mother. 

"Well,"  said  the  older  woman,  "he  is  at  Elise's 
constantly.  Dr.  Sewall  can  do  nothing  to  stop  it, 
and  your  aunt  can  do.  nothing.  If  they  try  to 
reason  with  Elise,  she  goes  into  hysterics  and  cries 
that  all  her  family  hate  her,  and  that  she  wishes 
she  was  dead.  She  has  taken  to  running  to  the 
city  twice  a  week  for  music  lessons,  and  several 
times  Mrs.  Neilson  has  seen  her  lunching  with 
that  man.  Mrs.  Neilson  told  the  Misses  Duncan, 
and  Miss  Janet  wrote  asking  me  if  I  couldn't  per- 
suade Elise  to  stop,  before  the  thing  came  to  her 
mother's  ears.  It  really  doesn't  seem  as  if  it  could 
be  our  family,  with  such  dreadful  things  happening 
in  it,"  finished  Mrs.  Winthrop  plaintively. 

"Well,  mother,  Elise  is  just  exactly  what  she's 
always  been,"  observed  Theodora  with  complete 
nonchalance.  "I  don't  know  why  we  should  ex- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  331 

pect  her  to  change  all  of  a  sudden.  .  .  .  Now, 
I'm  going  to  put  you  to  bed.  You've  had  a  wear- 
ing day." 

"Very  well.  .  .  .  My  dear,  I'm  very  thank- 
ful you  broke  off  your  relationship  with  that  man." 

"So  am  I,  dear.  I'm  sure  none  of  us  will  ever 
regret  that,"  agreed  Theodora  cheerfully.  "That 
was  certainly  one  time  when  Aunt  Augusta  proved 
a  better  prophetess  than  any  of  the  rest  of  us, 
didn't  she?" 


CHAPTER   XVII 

MRS.  STUYVESANT  made  the  promised  call,  and 
she  carried  Mrs.  Winthrop  home  with  her  for 
luncheon.  The  visit  must  have  been  a  success,  for 
it  was  the  forerunner  of  many  similar  ones.  Soon 
it  became  the  accepted  thing  for  Mrs.  Winthrop 
to  lunch  at  least  twice  a  week  with  the  old  lady. 

"Do  you  know,  Theodora,"  she  said  to  her 
daughter,  "she's  really  very  lonely;  and  she  de- 
tests her  present  companion.  She  tells  me  that 
she  has  never  ceased  to  miss  you.  She  is  evidently 
devoted  to  you." 

"  At  one  time  she  took  a  very  odd  way  of  showing 
her  devotion,  then.  Yet  I'm  bound  to  admit  that 
she  has  seemed  genuinely  fond  of  me  ever  since. 
It's  lovely,  mother,  that  you  read  to  her  and  write 
for  her,  and  comfort  her  generally.  .  .  .  Does 
she  ever  mention  her  nephew,  Captain  Beeckman?  " 

"Never  till  today.  Miss  Lorrimer,  her  rector's 
daughter,  writes  all  her  letters  to  him.  I  happen 
to  know,  because  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  had  mislaid  the 
envelope  to  the  last  one,  and  I  had  to  address  an- 
other for  her.  Then  she  spoke  about  Miss  Lorri- 


332 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  333 

Theodora  picked  up  a  magazine  and  became 
absorbed  in  the  picture  on  its  cover.  "What  was 
his  address?"  she  asked.  "Do  you  happen  to 
remember  it?" 

"Yes.     The  i65th  Infantry,  426.  Division." 

So  there  was  Theodora  with  her  long  desired 
information,  and  the  only  good  it  would  do  her 
would  be  to  enable  her  to  follow  the  movements 
of  the  division  as  reported  in  the  papers.  She 
couldn't  very  well  write  to  an  engaged  man  and 
say,  "I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  know  that 
my  own  engagement  is  broken."  Nevertheless, 
the  definite  knowledge  was  a  comfort. 

One  January  afternoon  she  returned  from  the 
office  feeling  more  tired  than  usual.  It  had  been 
an  upset  sort  of  day.  For  one  thing,  Mrs.  Felton 
had  been  dismissed.  Several  of  the  girls  had  over- ' 
heard  Mr.  Harmon  telling  another  man  that  Mrs. 
Felton  was  "too  damned  full  of  theories"  to  suit 
him,  and  that  he  didn't  propose  to  have  any  woman 
telling  him  how  to  run  his  business.  Mrs.  Felton 
had  taken  her  dismissal  in  very  bad  part.  She  had 
told  all  the  employees  that  "since  she  had  given 
two  months  of  her  time  to  Mr.  Harmon,  it  was  his 
place  to  find  her  another  position."  This,  in  turn, 
had  reached  the  manager's  ears.  He  had  come  to 
Mrs.  Felton's  desk,  outwardly  calm  but  inwardly 
seething,  and  there  had  been  a  very  pretty  little 
passage  at  arms  to  which  all  the  other  women  had 
listened  agog. 


334  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Mrs.  Felton,"  Mr.  Harmon  had  said  smoothly, 
"I  hear  you  think  I  owe  you  a  job." 

Though  taken  by  surprise,  Mrs.  Felton  had  stood 
her  ground.  "I  certainly  do,"  she  had  replied. 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Because  I've  given  you  two  months  of  my  time 
which  might  have  been  better  used  elsewhere." 

"You  came  here  for  money,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes.     But- 

" And  you  got  it?" 

' '  Certainly.  You  couldn't  keep  me  from  getting 
what  I  earned." 

"How  much  were  you  making  in  the  position 
you  resigned  to  come  here?" 

"I  had  no  position.     I  wasn't  working." 

"So  I  thought.  Then  Mrs.  Felton,  as  I  figure 
it,  as  any  business  man  would  figure  it,  you  are 
exactly  two  months'  wages  ahead  of  the  game." 
And  he  walked  away. 

So  the  expert  theorist  had  lasted  in  business  just 
two  months,  while  women  of  inferior  brains  who 
knew  how  to  confine  themselves  to  their  own  affairs 
went  successfully  on! 

As  soon  as  Theodora  opened  the  door  of  her  little 
flat  that  day,  she  knew  there  was  something  amiss. 
Mrs.  Winthrop  looked  as  though  she  had  been  cry- 
ing and  her  manner  was  perturbed.  After  some 
futile  conversation,  the  trouble  came  out.  "Read 
that,"  cried  the  mother,  thrusting  an  envelope  with 
the  Waverly  postmark  into  her  daughter's  hand. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  335 

"Your  poor  aunt!  I  fear  she  will  never  get  over 
this  blow!" 

Theodora  read  the  letter  to  the  accompaniment 
of  her  mother's  sniffs  and  murmurs.  The  news  it 
carried  was  certainly  rather  in  the  nature  of  an 
earthquake — considering  the  people  it  concerned. 

Elise  was  going  to  Reno  for  a  divorce.  "  That 
man"  (Aunt  Augusta  could  not  bring  herself  to 
write  Gerald  Wyatt's  name)  was  evidently  putting 
up  the  money  for  the  trip;  in  all  probability  he 
would  join  Elise  out  there.  She  was  leaving  her 
baby  to  Dr.  Sewall,  apparently  without  a  regret. 
And  she  had  been  sufficiently  unprincipled  to  seize 
that  handle  open  to  the  wives  of  all  physicians — 
fictitious  jealousy  of  her  husband's  women  patients 
and  his  undue  interest  in  them.  "And  that" 
wrote  poor  Aunt  Augusta,  "is  the  thing  I  can  least 
forgive  her.  No  better  man  than  Andrew  Sewall 
ever  lived,  and  his  wife  must  know  it  well.  But 
she  spares  no  one.  Meta  will  take  the  boy.  She 
will  bring  him  up  better  than  his  mother  ever  could. 
But  for  Andrew,  I  see  no  comfort  anywhere.  My 
heart  is  broken  by  my  thankless  child.  Poor  dear 
Theodora — I  hope  this  miserable  business  will  not 
cause  her  any  unhappiness.  She  is  well  out  of  her 
entanglement  with  that  man!" 

Theodora  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  long  breath. 
"  Poor  Aunt  Augusta,"  she  said. 

"She'll  never  get  over  it,"  moaned  Mrs.  Win- 
throp. 


336  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"Well,  mother,  of  course  Elise  is  a  miserably  self- 
ish woman,  but  we've  always  known  that.  She's 
deserting  her  child,  and  she's  doing  her  best  to 
break  her  mother's  heart — and  her  husband's. 
But  apart  from  that — I  mean,  as  far  as  disgrace  is 
concerned — Aunt  Augusta  needn't  worry.  In 
Gerald  Wyatt's  set  and  in  all  the  sets  that  Elise 
will  ever  care  to  enter,  this  sort  of  thing  is  too  usual 
even  to  cause  comment.  It's  an  every-day  occur- 
rence." 

"I  can't  see  how  Elise  ever  learned  to  be  so 
wicked,"  sighed  Elise's  aunt.  "She  had  just  the 
same  training  as  you  and  Meta." 

"Oh,  no,  she  didn't,  mother.  Elise  has  been 
spoiled  and  humoured  all  her  life.  And  anyhow, 
meanness  and  selfishness  don't  have  to  be  learned. 
They're  born.  Perhaps  you  can  train  them  out — 
I  don't  know  whether  you  can  or  not.  But  you 
certainly  never  have  to  train  them  in.  Maybe 
Elise  couldn't  help  herself  after  all — though  it's  my 
private  opinion  that  she  could.  At  any  rate,  I'm 
going  to  write  to  poor  Aunt  Augusta  this  minute." 

This  she  proceeded  to  do.  "Above  all,  dear 
Aunt  Augusta,"  she  wrote  in  conclusion,  "don't 
worry  about  me.  I  never  loved  Gerald  Wyatt. 
Elise  apparently  does.  She'll  make  him  happier 
than  I  ever  could,  and  she'll  probably  be  happy 
herself.  The  baby  will  have  a  wonderful  mother  in 
Meta,  and  Dr.  Sewall  will  surely  get  over  his  un- 
happiness  after  awhile.  So  don't  let's  bother." 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  337 

Theodora  honestly  believed  that  her  cousin 
would  be  happy  when  once  she  had  attained  the 
money  and  luxury  for  which  she  had  always 
longed,  but  of  course  she  was  mistaken.  As  long 
as  there  lived  a  human  being  courageous  enough 
to  give  Elise  Charrington  the  cold  shoulder,  as 
long  as  there  existed  a  clique  in  which  she  was  not 
welcomed  as  a  queen,  as  long  as  there  were  women 
with  more  money,  or  beauty,  or  gems,  or  clothes, 
or  youth,  or  even  plain  content  than  she,  just  that 
long  would  she  have  cause  for  wretchedness.  It 
would  be  strange,  indeed,  should  she,  who  had 
never  cared  for  a  living  soul  save  herself,  suddenly 
find  in  one  man  her  happiness  and  her  boundary. 
It  would  be  strange  should  Gerald,  who  his  whole 
life  long  had  loved  women  only  to  leave  them,  sud- 
denly discover  that  there  was  but  one  woman  in 
the  world,  after  all.  And  it  would  be  doubly 
strange  if  the  sum  of  one  selfish  human  being  plus 
another  selfish  human  being  should  equal  perpet- 
ual bliss! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THEODORA  sat  at  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  dinner-table 
and  looked  around  the  softly  lighted,  softly  per- 
fumed circle. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  pre- 
sided with  all  her  wonted  sparkle  and  charm,  happy 
to  find  herself  once  more  in  the  congenial  role  of 
hostess.  On  her  right  sat  Bishop  Wysong,  a 
visitor  in  New  York  and  tonight's  guest  of  honour. 
Next  him,  on  his  other  side,  was  a  transformed 
Mrs.  Winthrop.  Theodora  looked  at  her  mother 
in  happy  amazement.  Less  than  three  months' 
absence  from  Waverly  had  made  a  different  woman 
of  her.  Full  of  pretty  pleasure  over  an  evening 
with  her  lifelong  friend  the  Bishop,  full  of  interest 
in  all  the  questions  of  the  day,  full  of  modest  in- 
formation anent  Red  Cross  work,  surgical  dressings 
classes,  French  and  Belgian  Relief  committees, 
she  was  scarcely  recognizable.  As  she  turned 
from  Bishop  Wysong  to  Mr.  Lorrimer  who  sat  on 
her  right  (and  who  was  Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  perma- 
nent pastor  and  her  own  temporary  one),  she  was 
actually  animated,  actually  almost  gay. 

Next  to  Mr.  Lorrimer  sat  Theodora.  Theodora, 
one-time  dependent  in  the  Stuyvesant  household, 

338 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  339 

now  its  frequent  and  welcome  guest ;  Theodora,  a 
little  pale,  a  little  thin,  decidedly  more  silent  and 
less  assertive,  distinctly  softened  and  restrained, 
but  no  whit  less  wholesome  and  charming  and  hon- 
est; a  far  gentler  Theodora,  yet  a  Theodora  with 
occasional  lapses  into  her  old  intensity — as  she 
presently  proceeded  to  prove. 

They  were  talking,  of  course,  about  the  war. 
Who  in  the  civilized  world  was  not,  at  that  par- 
ticular period?  Mr.  Lorrimer's  curate,  young  Mr. 
Fosdick,  sat  between  his  hostess  and  Theodora 
and  completed  the  party.  He  was  a  great  admirer 
of  the  girl,  and  they  two  had  just  been  discussing 
volunteers  versus  drafted  men. 

There  happened  to  be  a  general  conversational 
pause  as  Theodora  replied  to  a  remark  of  her 
companion. 

"I  think  I  can  stand  anything,"  she  was  saying, 
"better  than  the  men  who  enlist  only  when  they 
find  that  they  are  about  to  be  caught  in  the  draft 
anyhow.  That  makes  me  hot.  They  haven't  the 
physical  courage  to  go  if  they  don't  have  to,  nor 
the  moral  courage  to  admit  that  they  were  forced. 
I  could  admire  an  out-and-out  slacker  more." 

She  glanced  up  and  caught  the  Bishop's  eye.  It 
held  a  certain  look  that  she  recognized.  Imme- 
diately her  face  flamed  scarlet,  and  she  addressed 
herself  directly  to  him. 

"I  suppose  it's  none  of  my  business,"  she  said. 
"It's  their  shame,  not  mine." 


340  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

The  Bishop  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed — 
he  couldn't  help  it.  But  there  was  a  very  tender 
note  in  his  voice,  as  he  replied : 

"You're  learning,  dear  child.  You're  learning 
fast." 

"But,"  persisted  Theodora,  "we  can't  help 
noticing  things,  can  we?" 

"Certainly  not.  We  can  only  help  feeling  that 
their  punishment  and  denouncement  lie  with  us." 

"Nevertheless,  sir,"  Mr.  Fosdick  rushed  to 
Theodora's  support,  "I  fancy  that  most  of  us  feel 
privileged  to  criticize  un worthiness." 

"Undoubtedly  we  feel  so,"  smiled  the  Bishop. 
"I  think  no  one  will  deny  that." 

"I  heard  the  present  crisis  very  aptly  named 
the  other  day,"  said  Mr.  Lorrimer.  "Someone 
spoke  of  it  as  the  'Sieve  of  Flame';  the  sieve  that 
separates  the  wheat  from  the  chaff." 

"They  may  call  the  war  anything  they  choose," 
cried  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  "as  long  as  they  don't 
call  it  a  blessing  in  disguise.  I  confess,  that  is 
more  than  I  can  stand."  She  turned  to  Bishop 
Wysong.  "You  make  no  such  claim  for  it,  I 
hope?"  she  demanded. 

"Most  certainly  not.  It  is  a  holocaust.  It  is 
no  more  a  blessing  per  se  than  would  be  some 
horrible  plague,  or  devastating  fire,  or  sudden  out- 
break of  crime.  It  is  a  terrible  evil,  and  like  all 
evils,  it  must  be  met  and  fought." 

"The  sad  part,"  said  Mr.  Lorrimer,  "is  the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  341 

way  it  has  made  the  world  poorer.  I  don't  mean 
in  money,  of  course;  but  in  happiness,  in  heroes, 
in  good  men  and  women,  in  geniuses,  in  trust,  in 
normal  progress.  The  wastage  has  been  appalling. 
For  that,  if  for  nothing  else,  its  wanton  perpetra- 
tors must  be  indicted." 

"The  only  way,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  he  spoke 
like  a  man  inspired,  "the  only  way  that  this  war 
can  be  turned  into  a  blessing,  is  by  seeing  that  its 
lessons  are  never  forgotten." 

"What?"  cried  Theodora  eagerly. 

"In  this  season  of  mourning,"  continued  the  old 
man,  "we  have  learned  much.  We  have  learned 
to  be  tender  and  pitiful,  to  bear  heroically,  to  give 
our  lives  to  others,  to  forget  unnecessary  social 
distinctions,  to  pray  more  than  we  ever  prayed  be- 
fore. We  have  learned  to  shudder  at  greed.  We 
have  learned  that  materialism  can  find  no  answer 
to  any  of  the  great  questions.  We  have  learned 
to  believe  in  miracles — for  who  that  remembers  the 
Marne  will  deny  them  ?  And  therefore  I  say  that 
only  if  safety  brings  forgetfulness  and  a  return  to 
carelessness,  will  the  war  have  been  wasted.  It 
lies  in  our  human  hands.  The  watchword  of  the 
world  should  henceforth  be,  'Lest  we  forget. ' ' 

There  was  solemnity  in  the  silence  which  fol- 
lowed his  words.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

' '  How  are  you  going  to  make  people  remember  ? " 
she  demanded.  "I  know  it's  the  cant  of  the  mo- 


342  Poor  Dear  Theodora ! 

ment  to  talk  of  the  spiritual  reconstruction  of 
human  nature  by  the  war,  but  I  have  absolutely 
no  faith  in  it.  Serious  people,  decent  people,  were 
serious  and  decent  before  the  war,  they're  serious 
and  decent  during  the  war,  and  they'll  be  serious 
and  decent  after  the  war.  But  the  burden  of  sor- 
row and  of  reconstruction  will  all  be  on  their 
shoulders.  Light  people  are  merely  holding  them- 
selves in  leash,  waiting  to  break  out;  they're  doing 
charitable  work  because  it's  the  fashion.  Light 
women  are  flooding  the  war  workrooms,  donning 
any  becoming  uniform  they  can  get,  striving  to  be 
placed  with  the  most  fashionable  units,  doing  good 
to  be  in  the  style.  Light  men  are  running  to  cover 
in  safe  posts.  Greedy  people  are  willing  to  grow 
rich  even  by  forgetting  Germany's  crimes.  How 
are  you  going  to  keep  such  people  'remembering,' 
once  the  danger  is  past  ? " 

"The  little  leaven  that  leaveneth  the  whole 
lump,"  murmured  Mr.  Lorrimer. 

"Exactly,"  nodded  the  Bishop.  "Make  it  the 
fashion  to  be  decent.  Above  all,  show  the  boys 
who  come  back  that  religion  and  decency  are  the 
style.  Help  them  to  cheerfulness  and  happiness, 
but  at  the  same  time  prove  to  them  that  while 
they've  been  thinking  of  serious  things,  so  too  have 
we.  Do  your  own  part.  Don't  countenance  vile 
plays  and  indecent  books,  even  indirectly — unfor- 
tunately they  are  increasing  daily.  .  .  .  You, 
dear  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  and  women  like  you,  are 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  343 

vested  with  a  wonderful  power.  But  even  so, 
you  haven't,  by  any  means,  the  option  on  influence. 
No  one  has.  Welcome  or  unwelcome,  it  is  the 
possession  of  every  human  soul,  and  its  circles 
widen  and  widen  till  they  reach  undreamed-of 
boundaries." 

Theodora's  beautiful  eyes  were  gazing  intently 
into  space.  They  were  seeing  the  vision  painted 
by  this  man  of  God.  Never  in  all  her  after  life 
was  she  to  forget  that  which  he  had  just  made  her 
see.  His  influence,  in  this  instance  at  least,  had 
not  gone  for  naught.  "Lest  we  forget,"  she  said 
softly  to  herself.  "Lest  we  forget.  We  mustn't 
let  the  war  be  wasted." 

"But  you  don't  think,  do  you,"  she  cried  eagerly, 
"that  anyone  really  could  forget?" 

The  Bishop  shook  his  head  sadly.  ' '  People  can 
do  anything,"  he  answered.  "Anything  in  either 
direction.  I  alternate  between  hope  and  fear.  My 
faith  bids  me  hope.  My  perception  makes  me  fear." 

When  Theodora  and  her  mother  returned  home 
that  evening,  the  late  mail  had  been  dropped  into 
their  letter-box.  There  was  one  letter  that  the 
girl  carried  to  the  light,  scanning  it  anxiously. 

"Here's  an  overseas  letter,"  she  said,  "in  a 
writing  I  don't  know.  I  do  hope  there's  nothing 
the  matter  with  Ned. "  Tearing  open  the  envelope 
she  hastily  turned  the  sheet  to  read  the  signature. 
"Oh,"  she  gasped,  and  her  cheeks  began  to  flame. 


344  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  the  mother  anxiously. 
"Not  bad  news?" 

"No  .  .  .  No,  it's  all  right.  .  .  .  It's  just 
— just  a  friendly  letter  from  a  man  I  used  to  know 
— Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  nephew,  in  fact — Captain 
Beeckman.  He  ran  into  Marjorie  in  Paris  and 
they  got  to  talking  about  me.  She  gave  him  my 
address." 

Before  Theodora  slept,  she  knew  that  letter  by 
heart.     She  could  see  it  projected  on  the  darkness 
before  her  wide-open  happy  eyes.     It  was  nothing 
unusual,  but  it  didn't  sound  like  the  letter  of  an 
engaged  man .    If  this  man  were  in  love  with  Helen , 
why  should  he  be  writing  to  Theodora?     To  be 
sure,  it  was  a  mere  friendly  sheet.     Captain  Beeck- 
man wrote  of  his  pleasure  in  hearing  of  her  "even 
indirectly,"  and  of  his  surprise  at  the  news  of  her 
broken  engagement — "and  since  it  was  your  pleas- 
ure to  break  it,  perhaps  you  won't  mind  if  I  say 
that  it  was  my  very  great  pleasure  to  hear  of  it." 
He  wondered  if  she  could  spare  an  occasional  half- 
hour  to  send  him  a  line — ' '  I  have  no  marraine  as 
yet,  and  perhaps  you  have  room  in  your  heart  for 
one  more  ftlleul.     Letters  from  home  are  the  finest 
things  a  chap  gets,  out  here.     He  has  plenty  of 
time  to  look  forward  to  them,  and  to  learn  them  by 
heart  after  they  come."     Then  he  signed  himself, 
"Yours,  Alan."     Nothing  but  those  two  words — 
yet  to  Theodora  they  were  the  most  important  ones 
in  the  letter. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  345 

How  changed  was  the  world  the  next  morning ! 
How  pleasant  were  the  people  in  the  office!  How 
beautiful  were  the  morning  sunshine  and  the  after- 
noon storm !  How  foolish  and  negligible  was  food ! 
And  above  all,  how  blessed  was  the  luncheon  hour 
when,  instead  of  eating,  Theodora  wrote.  Wrote, 
and  tore,  and  re-wrote,  and  finally  posted.  Her 
letter  didn't  please  her,  but  she  knew  she'd  never 
be  able  to  write  one  that  did;  how  could  one  man- 
age to  say  just  enough,  when  one  didn't  know  what 
that  "enough"  might  be? 

One  question  Theodora  determined  to  settle 
definitely  and  permanently.  "It  must  be  a  com- 
fort, ' '  she  wrote,  * '  to  have  Miss  Burrill  on  the  same 
side  of  the  water,  even  if  she  is  not  in  France." 
Then  she  drew  her  pen  lightly  through  the  words 
"Miss  Burrill,"  and  substituted  "your  fiancee." 
"There,"  she  said  grimly  to  herself,  "now  I'll 
know." 

She  began  to  count,  first  weeks,  then  days,  then 
hours  and  minutes.  Yet  when  Alan's  answer  fi- 
nally came  (which  it  did  at  the  first  possible  op- 
portunity), she  almost  feared  to  open  it.  She 
wished  she  had  not  said  that  about  Helen  Burrill. 
Perhaps  he  wouldn't  like  it. 

His  letter  lay  awaiting  her  return  from  the  office, 
and  the  first  thing  that  she  noticed  was  its  thick- 
ness. It  must  be  long — long! 

The  man  began  by  expressing  his  very  great 
pleasure  in  hearing  from  her. 


346  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"What  you  say  about  Helen  Burrill,"  he  wrote, 
"may,  I  hope,  be  the  answer  to  many  things  that  have 
puzzled  me — even  sometimes  hurt  me  a  little.  Was  it 
because  you  believed  me  to  be  engaged  to  her  that 
you  never  wrote  me  of  your  own  broken  engagement  ? 
Never  sent  me  a  single  line  before  I  sailed,  or  since  I 
landed?  Had  I  had  any  such  line,  rest  assured  I'd 
never  have  left  without  seeing  you,  nor  given  you  any 
rest  from  my  letters  once  I  was  here. 

"  I  have  never  been  engaged  to  Helen,  nor  to  anyone. 
Who  ever  told  you  that  I  was  ?  Not  Aunt  Honora,  I 
am  sure,  though  I  confess  that  it  has  long  been  the 
dearest  wish  of  her  heart  to  see  us  married — a  wish, 
however,  which  was  shared  by  neither  of  us.  I'll 
explain  it  to  you. 

"My  aunt  had  an  only  son  whom  she  adored.  He 
was  rather  the  type  of  my  cousin  Van,  attractive  but 
selfish.  Eight  years  ago,  when  he  was  a  man  of  thirty- 
five,  he  engaged  himself  to  Helen,  who  was  then  only 
twenty.  His  mother  was  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  de- 
light. The  wedding  day  was  set  and  the  cards  were 
actually  out,  when  my  cousin  shot  himself  and  was 
found  dead  in  his  apartment.  It  nearly  killed  Aunt 
Honora,  and  it  turned  Helen  into  a  recluse.  She  and 
I  had  been  boy  and  girl  friends — there  is  less  than  a 
year's  difference  between  us — and  I  was  consumed 
with  pity  for  her.  We  came  to  be  together  con- 
stantly; in  fact,  for  a  long  time  I  was  the  only  person 
she  would  consent  to  see.  But  it  was  always  the  rela- 
tionship of  a  brother  and  a  sister.  Not  only  was  she  a 
little  the  older  actually,  but  her  tragedy  made  her 
seem  very  much  so.  I  was  her  'little  brother,'  the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  347 

person  to  whom  she  turned  for  sympathy,  and  also 
for  help  in  the  splendid  charities  with  which  she  soon 
began  to  busy  herself.  And  watching  the  develop- 
ment of  a  mind  and  character  such  as  hers,  I  came  to 
find  the  ordinary  society  bud  insipid  and  silly. 

"Then  Aunt  Honora,  whose  pet  and  favourite  I  had 
always  been,  set  her  heart  on  a  marriage  between 
Helen  and  me.  It  became  the  dream  of  her  life,  and 
she  did  everything  in  her  power  to  bring  it  about ;  but 
of  course  to  no  end.  There  was  never  the  ghost  of 
that  sort  of  thing  in  our  fondness.  Helen  had  had  her 
romance,  and  mine  had  never  even  come — until  I  saw 
you.  And  now  my  secret  is  out. 

"My  dear,  in  this  life  over  here,  a  chap  gets  down 
to  facts.  He  forgets  how  to  be  graceful,  and  becomes 
primitive  and  elemental.  That  must  be  my  excuse 
for  what  follows. 

"I  loved  you,  I  think,  from  the  first  moment  that  I 
ever  saw  you.  (Do  you  remember  those  evenings  at 
Fair  Acres,  and  how  I  kept  coming  back  to  you  ?)  I 
think  now  that  Aunt  Honora  guessed  my  secret  and 
sent  you  off.  Then  I  went  almost  immediately  to  the 
Border,  and  when  I  came  back  you  belonged  to  another 
man.  As  far  as  I  knew,  you  were  entirely  in  love  with 
him.  Still,  I  couldn't  forget  you.  All  through  the  days 
after  we  declared  war,  all  through  the  long  weeks  that 
I  spent  in  camp  waiting  for  orders  to  sail,  you  were  my 
one  thought.  I  kept  thinking  that  if  I  could  only  see 
you  once — married  or  single — I  could  go  the  more 
easily.  And  since  I  got  over  here,  the  longing  has 
been  worse.  Your  face  is  always  before  my  eyes, 
your  voice  calls  to  me  from  every  wind  that  blows. 


348  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Sleeping  or  waking,  I  can  never  forget  you.  Perhaps 
at  home  I  might  have  managed  it  in  time — but  I  don't 
think  so.  Out  here,  the  memory  of  you  is  intensified 
till  you  are  life  itself. 

"And  now,  perhaps  I  needn't  try  to  forget.  If  I 
come  back,  perhaps  I'll  have  a  chance  to  make  you  care 
for  me.  I  used  to  think  last  winter  that  you  liked  me 
a  little.  My  dear,  my  dear,  if  I  come  home  again,  is 
there  any  hope  for  me? 

"This  may  sound  bald  to  you.  You  may  think  I 
should  have  wooed  you  by  more  graceful  degrees.  If 
you  were  out  here  you'd  understand.  You'd  know 
that  there  isn't  time.  There  isn't  time  for  anything 
but  just  plain  truth. 

"If  you  can  ever  love  me,  I  pray  that  I  may  live  to 
come  back.  If  you  can't,  I  may  be  gone  on  before  I 
know  it.  They  say  the  big  push  is  on  soon.  But  no 
matter  what  happens,  I'm  glad  I  told  you  that  I  love 
you.  Of  that,  you  must  have  never  a  doubt. 

"  Yours, 
"  ALAN.  " 

There  may  be  happier  moments  in  the  life  of  a 
woman  than  the  one  when  she  first  knows  that  the 
man  'whom  she  loves  loves  her,  but  human  expe- 
rience scarcely  warrants  the  belief.  But  for  her 
terrible  fears  as  to  the  safety  of  her  beloved, 
Theodora  could  have  asked  nothing  more  in  the 
way  of  bliss.  And  it  was  Marjorie  Charrington, 
Ned's  little  bride  Marjorie  whose  happy  love  story 
she  had  been  almost  envying,  who  had  been  the 
unconscious  means  of  compassing  this  miracle. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  349 

It  was  early  in  March  when  Alan's  letter  reached 
Theodora.  She  answered  it  immediately,  as 
frankly,  as  freely,  as  yearningly,  as  he  himself  had 
written.  She  poured  out  her  heart  in  an  abandon- 
ment of  love  and  happiness ;  but  the  great  question 
soon  became  whether  the  letter  would  ever  reach 
him.  Word  was  sent  almost  immediately  that  the 
American  soldiers  were  in  the  trenches,  and  that 
the  big  drive  was  on.  The  days  grew  steadily 
blacker  to  those  waiting  at  home.  Men's  hearts 
failed  them  for  fear,  and  women's  almost  stopped 
beating.  Everyone  tried  to  extract  comfort  from 
the  talk  of  'strategic  retreats,'  and  'unbroken 
fronts'  and  an  approaching  unified  command. 
The  fact  remained  that  the  Allies  were  being  stead- 
ily driven  back  over  their  hardly  recovered  ground 
— a  few  days  wrenching  from  them  that  which  had 
taken  months  to  win.  For  the  first  time,  Hope 
died  in  many  a  breast.  Men  and  women  who  had 
not  prayed  for  years,  or  perhaps  never  at  all, 
prayed  now.  Those  who  had  prayed  all  their  lives, 
now  found  their  sole  comfort  in  prayer.  Few 
there  were  who  cared  to  scoff  at  such  things  in 
these  drear  days. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  read  the  papers — one 
read  five  and  six  editions  in  a  day ;  yet  it  was  so  de- 
pressing a  business  that  it  took  all  one's  courage  to 
accomplish  it. 

There  came  a  day  when  Theodora  was  called  to 
the  manager's  desk  and  told  that  she  was  wanted  on 


350  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

the  private  wire.  It  was  her  mother  speaking  from 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's.  She  had  never  before  called 
up  during  business  hours,  and  her  voice  sounded 
strained  and  unnatural.  "My  dear,"  she  said, 
"could  you  possibly  get  the  afternoon  off?  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  is  not  well,  and  she  wants  to  see  you  at 
once.  Tell  them  that  it  is  something  rather  im- 
portant. No,  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me. 
I  am  quite  all  right ....  No,  it  is  not  one  of  her 
heart  attacks — at  least,  not  yet;  but  the  doctor 
rather  fears  one,  particularly  if  she  does  not  soon 
see  you.  Come  at  once,  dear,  if  you  possibly 
can." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

MRS.  WINTHROP  was  waiting  downstairs  to 
intercept  Theodora  and  explain  the  situation  to 
her. 

"Mrs.  Stuyvesant  has  had  bad  news  from 
France, ' '  she  said.  "  Her  nephew  has  been  danger- 
ously wounded  in  action." 

Theodora  collapsed  onto  a  chair.  Her  breath 
seemed  to  stop,  but  she  managed  to  ask: 

"Captain  Alan  Beeckman?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Why,  Theodora!  .  .  .  Why, 
my  dear  child !  What  is  the  matter? ' '  For  Theo- 
dora had  begun  to  weep  silently.  Not  since  she 
was  a  little  child  had  her  mother  seen  her  shed 
tears. 

"Mother,"  she  said  piteously,  "I've  been  going 
to  tell  you  about  it.  I  love  him." 

According  to  the  creed  in  which  Mrs.  Winthrop 
had  been  bred,  it  was  the  height  of  indelicacy  for  a 
girl  to  look  with  the  frank  clear  eyes  of  a  boy  into 
the  face  of  an  older  woman,  and  announce  her  love 
of  a  man.  However,  Mrs.  Winthrop  was  not  only 
a  tender  mother — albeit  one  who  had  received 
many  jars  from  her  offspring — but  she  was  living 


352  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

in  wider  circles  and  more  strenuous  days  than  those 
in  which  she  had  been  born. 

"My  dear,"  she  cried  pitifully,  "I'm  so  sorry. 
Tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  couldn't  help  feeling  relieved  to  find  that 
the  girl's  love  had  not  been  given  unsought.  Poor 
dear  Theodora  was  always  so  full  of  surprises  that 
her  mother  was  prepared  for  anything — anything, 
that  is,  that  might  be  the  outcome  of  a  warm  hon- 
est heart  and  a  terribly  independent  mind.  Mrs. 
Winthrop  petted  and  comforted  and  attempted  to 
cheer,  and  for  the  first  time  in  years  felt  as  if  she 
had  her  little  girl  back  again.  The  reversal  of 
r61es  was  grateful  to  both  of  them.  The  mother 
felt  stronger,  while  the  daughter  experienced  the 
blessed  relief  of  giving  her  stiff  upper  lip  a  brief  rest. 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Winthrop  after  a  time,  "do 
you  think  you  could  go  up  to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant? 
She  wants  you  so  much." 

"Is  she  alone?" 

"Yes.  I  just  left  her  to  come  down  and  look 
for  you.  Marjorie's  mother  has  been  here  for 
quite  a  while,  but  she's  gone  now.  Louise  is  in 
the  next  room,  of  course,  but  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
seems  to  want  no  one  but  you." 

"How  do  my  eyes  look?" 

"They  are  quite  all  right.     Will  you  go  up?" 

Theodora  needn't  have  worried  about  her  eyes. 
It  was  not  a  moment  when  such  things  were  con- 
spicuous. She  was  shocked  to  see  the  ravaged 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  353 

face  which  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  turned  to  greet  her 
entrance. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  and  opened  her  arms  wide. 
Kneeling  by  her  side,  clasped  in  her  embrace, 
Theodora  read  the  dread  message:  "Regret  to 
report  Captain  Alan  Beeckman,  i65th  Infantry, 
42d  Division,  severely  wounded  in  action,  March 
— th." 

"Dear,  dear  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  it  mayn't  be  as 
bad  as  you  think,"  cried  the  girl,  though  her  own 
heart  was  full  of  the  blackest  fears.  American 
casualties  had  but  begun  to  come  in ;  for  years,  one 
had  read  of  the  martyrdom  and  permanent  crip- 
pling of  the  Allied  soldiers,  and  that  word,  "se- 
verely" carried  its  own  message. 

"Oh,  but  it  is — it  is.  Somehow,  I  feel  it.  And 
look  at  the  report— 

"Yes,  but  many  of  the  men  get  well  again,  even 
after  they  are  badly  hurt." 

"But  Alan  would  rather  be  dead  than  maimed. 
I'm  sure  of  it.  So  vigorous  he  was,  so  straight  and 
beautiful!  From  the  time  he  was  a  little  boy. 
.  .  .  But  oh,  the  worst  of  it  all  is  that  I  made 
him  unhappy;  I  tried  to  make  him  unhappy — I, 
who  pretended  to  love  him !  I  saddened  his  going ; 
and  though  I  was  sure  he  was  wretched,  I  kept 
telling  myself  that  I  knew  best." 

"  Never  mind."  Theodora's  sole  impulse  was  to 
comfort.  "He  knows  how  much  you  love  him." 

The  older  woman's  hands  were  lying  in  her  lap 


354  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

so  tightly  clasped  that  the  knuckles  showed  white 
even  against  their  chalky  surface.  All  at  once  she 
bit  her  lips  as  though  in  sudden  resolve,  and  threw 
her  head  up  proudly.  Turning,  she  faced  the 
kneeling  girl. 

"Theodora,"  she  said  (it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  so  spoken),  "Alan  loved  you." 

"And  I  love  him,"  answered  the  girl  simply. 
"I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"So  I  robbed  you  both!" 

"No,  no  you  didn't.  Let  me  tell  you — you've 
made  it  so  easy  for  me  to  do  it;  just  remember 
that  and  forget  everything  else."  And  with  the 
same  lack  of  self-consciousness  with  which  she  did 
everything,  the  girl  told  her  love  story. 

"Thank  God,"  murmured  the  old  lady.  Then 
she  asked  sharply,  "And  did  he  have  time  to  get 
your  letter  before — before  this?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  girl  softly.  "  I'm 
hoping  so.  He  wanted  me  to  know;  I  want  him 
to  know." 

"But  even  so,  I've  cheated  you.  If  you  and 
Alan  loved  each  other,  you  might  have  been  mar- 
ried before  he  went  out— 

The  girl  shook  her  head  quickly,  and  turned  her 
face  aside.  This  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
Then  very  quietly  she  answered,  "No.  You  see, 
I  was  still  engaged  when  he  enlisted." 

"Was  it  because  of  him  that  you  broke  your 
engagement?" 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  355 

"Largely.  That,  and  other  things.  But  I 
didn't  know  then  that  Alan  cared  for  me."  A 
lovely  colour  flooded  her  face  as  she  pronounced  the 
name  of  her  betrothed. 

"Theodora,  listen  to  me.  Don't  try  to  stop  me, 
for  it  will  do  no  good.  I  want  to  explain  this 
thing  to  you.  ...  I  had  other  plans  for  Alan — 
very  cherished  plans 

"Yes,  he  told  me." 

"He  told  you  about  Helen?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Stuy vesant.  In  my  first  letter — the 
first  I  had  ever  written  him — I  spoke  of  his  fiancee. 
You  see,  Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  Beeckman  had  told 
me  that  they  were  engaged." 

"No,  they  never  were.  But  it  was  a  thing  that 
I  desired  with  all  my  heart.  Did  Alan  tell  you 
about  my  son?" 

Theodora  nodded. 

"Well,  you  see,  loving  both  Alan  and  Helen  as 
I  did,  I  thought  it  would  make  me  perfectly  happy 
to  have  them  marry.  And  things  seemed  to  be 
going  so  well  until  you  came.  Then  I  noticed 
Alan's  interest  in  you  at  once,  and  I  took  fright. 
You  had  commanded  my  own  attention  and  re- 
spect from  the  very  first  moment  that  I  ever  saw 
you.  But  I  didn't  want  to  like  you,  I  didn't  want 
to  care  for  you — 

"Dear  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  never  mind  telling  me 
about  that  part.  I  understand." 

"You  don't  understand  at  all,"  cried  the  other, 


356  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

with  more  than  a  touch  of  her  old  asperity.  ' '  How 
can  you  understand  till  I  tell  you?  I'd  never  had 
a  companion  who  was  anything  but  a  timid  fawn- 
ing thing;  I'd  never  had  one  who  permitted  herself 
an  individuality,  a  courage,  a  self-respect,  as  great 
as  my  own — and  I  didn't  want  one.  At  first  I  was 
irritated.  Then  I  was  interested.  And  finally, 
I  found  I  was  actually  growing  very  fond  of  you, 
in  spite  of  myself." 

Theodora  raised  one  of  the  knotted  old  hands 
and  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

"Well,"  continued  the  old  lady,  "I  was  just 
getting  resigned  to  that  fact,  when  I  discovered 
that  the  boy  whom  Marjorie  was  determined  to 
marry  was  your  own  cousin.  That  seemed  too 
much.  Then,  down  in  Florida,  Bishop  Wysong 
and  Mrs.  Neilson  did  nothing  but  praise  you,  and 
my  own  boy  Alan  showed  an  obvious  pleasure  in 
being  with  you.  When  we  came  home,  his  pre- 
ference was  so  marked  that  I  took  alarm.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  all  my  family  were  in  league 
to  thrust  you  and  your  family  down  my  throat. 
The  Garys  were  weakening  about  Marjorie,  Alan 
was  leaving  Helen  and  seeking  the  first  girl  I  had 
ever  seen  him  seek — other  than  her.  I  made  up 
my  mind  I  couldn't  stand  it,  and  I  sent  you  off 
before  matters  got  any  worse." 

"So  that  was  it!" 

"Certainly.    What  did  you  suppose?" 

"I  couldn't  imagine.    You  see,  at  that  time  I 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  357 

never  even  dreamed  that  Alan  cared  for  me.  I 
thought  he  was  in  love  and  engaged." 

"Well,  I  got  my  punishment.  You'll  never 
know  how  I  missed  you  after  you  went.  It  was 
the  greatest  possible  pleasure  to  see  you  again  in 
Florida.  Even  when  Alan  came  I  didn't  worry, 
for  then  you  were  engaged — but  I  still  held  to  my 
old  plans  for  him.  When  we  came  home  he  told 
me  plainly  that  he  and  Helen  would  never  marry, 
and  she  wrote  me  the  same  thing  from  the  other 
side — she  was  in  England  by  then.  But  I  wouldn't 
believe  them;  I  wouldn't  give  up.  I  thought  if 
they  should  meet  over  there,  under  conditions  so 
different,  they  might  still  fall  in  love.  So  I  kept 
the  news  of  your  broken  engagement  from 
Alan.  You  see,  I  couldn't  yield  the  hope  that 
I  might  some  day  have  the  daughter  that  my 
own  dear  boy  had  planned  to  give  me — for  Alan 
is  like  a  son  to  me,  and  his  wife  will  be  like  a 
daughter." 

"I  can  understand  it  perfectly,"  said  Theodora 
gravely.  "  How  different  things  look  from  another 
point  of  view!  What  I  think  is  wonderful,  is 
that  you  should  be  ready  now  to  take  me  in  the 
place  of  Helen." 

"My  child,  don't  say  that.  All  that  I  ask  is 
that  you  and  my  boy  may  be  spared  to  each  other, 
and  that  you  will  both  forgive  me." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  Theodora  assured 
her  sweetly.  And  they  fell  to  talking  of  Alan. 


358  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  and  Theodora  were  now  to 
learn  the  full  meaning  of  the  word  suspense.  They 
lived  through  days  that  were  centuries  long,  and 
tense  nights  wV'ch  seemed  interminable.  They 
learned  the  weariness  of  companionship,  and  the 
sadness  of  solitude;  the  dread  look  and  smell  of 
newspapers,  and  the  heavy  hours  of  waiting  for 
them;  the  jump  which  a  heart  may  give  at  the 
sound  of  a  postman's  whistle;  the  vain  effort  to 
eat  in  order  to  "keep  up";  the  awful  realization 
of  powerlessness  to  affect  the  final  issue.  It  seemed 
a  wonder  that  human  hearts  and  human  nerves 
could  stand  such  a  strain,  while  human  bodies  con- 
tinued their  accustomed  round.  Theodora  began 
to  feel  that  had  she  needed  proof  of  Eternity,  it 
would  have  been  furnished  by  the  fact  that,  con- 
sidering the  proportions  of  its  joys  and  its  sorrows, 
this  life  alone  would  not  be  worth  the  pain  of  birth. 

Nearly  two  weeks  passed  before  any  definite 
word  came  concerning  Alan  Beeckman.  With 
every  possible  wire  in  her  hand,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
found  herself  unable  to  do  anything.  Cables 
brought  no  news  in  answer.  Marjorie  could  get 
no  particulars.  Daily  and  hourly  casualties  con- 
tinued to  be  so  heavy  that  hospitals  were  overflow- 
ing, operations  were  performed  at  a  rate  which 
would  recently  have  been  thought  impossible,  and 
doctors  and  nurses  went  without  sleep  night  after 
night.  Thousands  of  men  and  women  the  world 
over  were  waiting  and  praying  for  news. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  359 

When  word  came  at  length  to  Alan  Beeckman's 
loved  ones,  it  proved  them  to  be  among  the  blessed. 
He  would  recover,  and  he  would  not  be  perma- 
nently maimed.  He  had  gone  splendidly  through 
two  operations,  and  his  weeks  in  hospital  might 
well  be  the  means  of  saving  his  life,  since,  while  he 
lay  hovering  between  this  world  and  Eternity,  the 
terrible  drive  went  steadily  on,  and  with  it  went 
many  of  his  former  comrades.  The  dreadest  part 
of  the  good  news  about  him  was  that  he  would 
eventually  be  able  to  return  to  the  Front.  Then 
it  would  all  have  to  be  lived  again. 

It  was  long  before  Alan  himself  even  dictated  a 
letter,  and  longer  still  before  he  wrote  one.  In 
those  weeks  of  waiting  Theodora  grew  to  know  a 
new  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  There  became  more  and 
more  apparent  in  her  the  last  trait  which  anyone 
would  ever  have  expected  her  to  show — humility. 
Incongruous  as  it  might  seem,  Mrs.  Stuyvesant 
was  losing  her  grip  on  autocracy.  She  grew  so 
much  more  appealing  and  human  that  Theodora 
was  worried.  Once  in  awhile  the  old  spark  would 
flare  to  life,  only  to  give  place  to  almost  immediate 
softness.  "Talk  of  reconstruction,"  the  old  lady 
often  said  whimsically;  "I'm  the  most  recon- 
structed thing  in  sight — am  I  not,  Theodora?" 

Her  self-will  showed  itself  in  one  direction  more 
than  in  any  other;  she  was  determined  that  Theo- 
dora should  give  up  working,  and  that  she  and  her 
mother  should  come  to  live  in  the  big  lonely  house 


*>4 

360 *•*  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

where  they  now  spent  so  much  of  their  time.  "If 
it  hadn't  been  for  me,"  she  often  reminded  the 
girl, ' '  you  would  have  been  my  niece  by  now.  The 
least  you  can  do  is  to  let  me  adopt  you."  But  to 
this  plan  Theodora  would  not  harken,  and  her 
mother  upheld  her.  "I  hate  to  have  you  obliged 
to  work,"  said  Mrs.  Winthrop;  "but  of  course,  we 
could  not  make  any  such  permanent  arrangement 
as  that." 

Theodora  never  forgot  the  day  which  brought 
Alan's  first  pencilled  note.  He  had  received  her 
original  long  letter  just  before  going  into  battle. 
"I  can  never  make  you  understand  what  it  was  to 
me,"  he  wrote.  "To  get  it  in  those  surroundings 
was  like  standing  in  Hell  and  seeing  Heaven  wait- 
ing a  few  steps  ahead.  I  know  it  was  the  word 
your  letter  brought  that  carried  me  through,  here 
at  the  hospital.  The  first  thing  I  did  after  the 
operation  was  to  make  them  give  me  that  letter, 
and  it  has  never  left  me  since.  Because  of  it,  I 
fought  for  my  life  like  a  tiger." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Theodora  joined  the 
pathetic  army  of  Waiting  Women. 

When  romances  are  born  in  war  days,  they  are 
sad  and  abnormal  romances,  perforce.  Proper 
love  affairs  should  be  a  series  of  meetings  and 
thrills,  of  short  partings  which  only  make  possible 
further  meetings,  of  jealousies  and  reconciliations; 
they  should  concern  beautiful  maidens  in  beautiful 
toilets,  and  enamoured  swains  hovering  ever  near. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  361 

Such  love  affairs  are  delights.  But  the  maidens 
whose  heart  flowers  bloom  in  those  sad  days  when 
their  country  is  at  war,  can  hope  for  no  such  ro- 
mances. For  them,  there  are  no  recurrent  meetings 
— there  is  one  great  parting,  and  then  an  aching 
void.  Instead  of  dances  and  flowers  and  gay  toilets, 
they  have  hours  in  office,  or  hospital,  or  workroom 
— with  uniforms  for  sole  adornment.  Their  thrills 
are  thrills  of  fear.  For  them,  there  can  never 
happen  the  luxury  of  reconciliations  after  quarrels, 
nor  of  jealousy  reassured  and  forgiving.  Their 
lives  are  too  full  of  real  tragedies  to  admit  of  imi- 
tations. There  might  never  be  time  for  the  recon- 
ciliation that  gives  a  quarrel  its  zest.  Heroes  are 
not  to  be  driven  in  gilded  and  resetted  harness,  nor 
whipped  with  the  time-honoured  lash  of  feminine 
temperament.  Life  may  be  short,  waits  must  be 
long,  and  over  all  there  hangs  the  grim  pall  of  Death. 
Therefore  it  is,  that  the  romance  of  a  warring 
man  and  a  waiting  maid  can  never  sparkle  and 
scintillate  and  dazzle.  One  sole  soft  ray  lights  the 
path  of  the  maid  who  waits  for  the  lover  who  fights 
afar — and  that  is  the  gleam  from  the  star  of  Hope. 
And  it  was  only  by  dint  of  never  closing  her  eyes 
to  this  soft  beam,  that  Theodora  managed  to  guard 
her  days  against  the  blackness  of  despair. 

By  the  first  of  May,  Theodora's  lease  expired, 
Mrs.  Winthrop  was  beginning  to  feel  the  confine- 
ment of  city  life,  and  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  was  anxious 


362  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

to  get  to  Fair  Acres — where  she  planned  to  spend 
the  entire  summer,  foregoing  Newport  entirely. 
At  her  earnest  solicitation  (coupled  with  the  en- 
treaties of  Dr.  Homans  in  New  York  and  Dr. 
Powers  in  the  country),  Theodora  and  her  mother 
finally  consented  to  spend  the  summer  with  her. 
Mrs.  Winthrop  had  by  this  time  become  almost 
indispensable  to  the  old  lady ;  she  read  to  her,  wrote 
for  her,  drove  with  her,  and  was  a  delightful  com- 
panion for  her  days  of  loneliness.  Theodora  came 
and  went,  and  she  nearly  always  found  her  mother 
and  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  waiting  for  her  in  the  motor 
when  she  stepped  off  the  afternoon  train.  To 
them  she  brought  the  news  of  the  busy  city,  and 
from  them  she  received  much  solicitous  petting. 

In  June  there  came  .to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  from 
Helen  Burrill,  a  letter  announcing  her  engagement 
to  a  blinded  British  officer  of  the  Coldstream 
Guards.  The  old  lady  handed  it  to  Theodora  to 
read.  "I'm  not  much  of  a  success  in  the  role  of 
Destiny,"  she  observed.  "My  dear,  dear  Helen! 
What  a  sacrifice  of  her  young  life  this  seems!" 

"But  how  wonderful  for  the  man,"  said  Theo- 
dora. "And  she  seems  blissfully  happy." 

"Yes,  she  evidently  is.  It's  this  new  sort  of 
happiness;  we'll  have  to  accustom  ourselves  to  it. 
At  first  it  seems  unnatural,  but  it  is  certainly  very 
beautiful."  She  sighed.  Gaiety  had  gone  out  of 
the  world — even  for  the  young,  whose  natural 
birthright  it  was. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  363 

July  brought  the  news  of  the  second  Marne,  and 
Ned  was  reported  among  the  missing.  He  was 
"Sergeant"  Charrington  now.  The  word  "miss- 
ing" had  come  to  be  dreaded  almost  more  than  the 
word  "killed."  Aunt  Augusta,  in  her  agony  of 
suspense,  broke  for  once  through  her  frozen  calm, 
and  wrote  heart-broken  letters  to  her  sister.  Poor 
soul,  she  had  entered  her  Purgatory.  So  too  had 
Ned's  little  girl-wife,  and  through  her,  her  doting 
parents.  Through  Red  Cross  channels,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gary  managed  to  get  passports  to  France,  and 
they  sailed  at  once.  But  poor  Aunt  Augusta  had 
no  such  solace.  Like  Theodora,  she  joined  the 
army  of  Waiting  Women,  perforce. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  first  "  Victory  Day"  found  Theodora  sitting 
at  her  desk,  listening  to  New  York's  bedlam  and 
wondering  if  the  war  could  indeed  be  over.  The 
thought  was  almost  inconceivable.  Without  that 
black  monster  of  war,  what  would  the  world  be 
like — what  would  daily  life  be  like?  Could  it  ever 
again  be  as  once  it  was,  care-free,  happy,  material, 
unsuspicious?  Not  possibly,  decided  Theodora; 
not  possibly,  considering  the  terrible  by-products 
of  war  that  the  coming  days  must  reveal.  Mem- 
ory itself  must  forbid  a  return  to  the  old  habits. 
People  would  perforce  be  quieter  and  kinder — not 
gloomy,  but  thoughtful.  Life  must  be  simpler. 
Standards  must  be  higher.  Four  awful  years 
must  surely  have  seared  some  scars  in  selfish  light- 
ness! 

New  York  had  gone  mad  over  the  report  of  an 
armistice.  Papers  were  being  issued  every  hour, 
their  huge  black  head-lines  announcing  the  news  in 
the  most  theatrical  of  terms : 

364 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  365 

' '  GERMANY  CRAWLS' ' 

"THE  KAISER,  BEATEN  TO  HIS  KNEES,  ACKNOW- 
LEDGES THAT  AMERICA  PROVED  HIS  FINISH" 

"GENERAL  PERSHING  TO  DECIDE  KAISER'S  FATE" 

"CROWN  PRINCE  A  SUICIDE  AND  HINDENBURG  IN 
PRISON" 

"CROWN  PRINCE  WEEPS  AS  HE  DONS  OVERALLS" 

One  could  read  anything  and  believe  what  one  chose. 
The  screaming  notes  of  whistles,  sirens,  horns,  en- 
gines, bands,  and  human  voices  combined  to  make 
a  hideous  ensemble  that 'almost  killed  the  power  of 
thought.  Invitations  to  the  Kaiser's  funeral  were 
being  distributed  on  the  streets;  screaming  mobs 
accorded  him  a  mock  burial ;  telephone  books  were 
shredded  into  confetti  and  showered  from  high  office 
windows.  The  rites  of  joy  were  as  crude  as  they 
were  noisy. 

It  had  all  come  about  so  suddenly  that  Theodora 
feared  to  believe.  Might  it  not  be  some  trap? 
Could  Germany  indeed  have  been  beaten  in  a  cam- 
paign of  less  than  four  months — Germany,  who  had 
claimed  permanent  invincibility,  who  had  an- 
nounced food  supplies  adequate  for  at  least  three 
more  years,  who  had  been  an  almost  steady  con- 
queror up  to  last  July?  She  had  proved  herself 


366  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

such  a  despicable  yellow  cur  in  so  many  instances, 
wasn't  she  now  merely  yelping  in  fear  of  coming 
punishment?  Could  she  really  have  fallen  to 
pieces  so  suddenly?  She  who  had  so  often  lied, 
so  often  duped  the  decent  world,  might  well  be  at 
her  old  tricks  again. 

If  the  war  were  indeed  ended,  how  marvellously 
blessed  was  she,  Theodora!  To  have  had  two 
loved  ones  in  the  struggle  and  to  get  them  both 
back  unmaimed  would  be  almost  a  miracle.  Alan 
had  written  two  weeks  ago ;  he  was  still  safe  then. 
Ned,  too,  was  back  in  the  fight.  After  having 
been  wounded  in  the  second  Marne,  he  had  man- 
aged to  crawl  into  a  shell  hole.  There  they  found 
him  three  days  later,  unconscious  and  apparently 
dead.  But  after  six  or  eight  weeks  in  hospital, 
he  had  rejoined  his  unit  and  gone  back  to  the  front. 
How  wonderful  it  would  be  if  they  should  both 
return  unharmed!  Life  then  would  hardly  be 
long  enough  to  show  one's  gratitude. 

It  might  have  been  supposed  that  the  false  Vic- 
tory Day  would  have  discounted  the  real  one,  but 
such  did  not  prove  to  be  the  case.  On  the  real 
day,  Theodora  awoke  between  four  and  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning  to  the  sound  of  the  city  whistles 
answered  by  those  of  all  the  suburbs  and  near-by 
towns.  (She  was  back  in  New  York  by  now,  and 
she  and  her  mother  were  stopping  with  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant  while  seeking  an  apartment.)  Creep- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  367 

ing  out  of  bed,  the  girl  knelt  on  the  cold  floor  in 
an  abandonment  of  gratitude.  For  so  long  now, 
prayer  had  been  but  an  agony  of  supplication. 
The  answer  had  come;  the  curse  was  lifted.  What 
was  there  to  do  but  make  it  the  acme  of  thankful- 
ness? 

Finding  further  sleep  an  impossibility,  Theodora 
dressed  and  went  out.  She  wanted  to  get  into  a 
church.  Surely  she  could  find  one  open — she 
cared  not  what  its  denomination  might  be. 

She  had  walked  but  a  little  distance  when  she 
heard  the  sound  of  singing,  and  then  she  came 
upon  the  singer.  In  a  narrow  open  space  that  had 
been  cleared  for  her,  a  woman  stood — surrounded 
by  a  reverent  crowd.  The  men's  heads  were  bared 
and  the  women's  were  bowed.  In  a  high  clear 
soprano  the  singer  chanted  the  Doxology ;  over  and 
over  again  she  repeated  it,  till  its  four  simple  lines 
of  praise  and  worship  became  a  recurrent  anthem. 
Eventually  the  crowd  joined  their  voices  to  hers; 
more  and  more  of  them  sang;  it  was  a  beautiful 
ceremony  of  the  utmost  simplicity. 

"Oh,"  thought  Theodora,  "it's  going  to  be  all 
right.  They're  remembering  to  pray.  I'm  so 
glad — so  glad!" 

The  first  church  that  she  found  open  was  a 
Romish  one,  and  she  went  in  to  early  Mass.  The 
service  fitted  wonderfully  into  her  mood  of  rever- 
ence and  awe.  The  far-away  candle-lit  altar,  the 
dim  foreground  that  separated  it  from  the  nave, 


368  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

the  priest  in  his  robes,  the  kneeling  acolytes,  the 
swinging  censers,  and  the  odour  of  incense,  all 
combined  to  dedicate  the  hour  to  things  holy  and 
apart.  To  Theodora's  delight,  the  church  was 
thronged. 

She  returned  home  before  going  to  the  office, 
and  she  found  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  in 
the  same  state  of  fervent  exaltation  that  she  herself 
was  experiencing.  "Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Stuyvesant, 
"I  hope  everyone  will  remember  to  thank  God  for 
this  mercy.  I  hope  they  won't  forget ! " 

"They  won't,"  Theodora  assured  her,  and  told 
what  she  had  seen  and  heard. 

But  as  the  day  progressed,  she  began  to  have 
qualms.  A  day  of  solemn  thanksgiving  is  one 
thing,  a  motley  carnival  is  quite  another.  Where 
were  the  hearts  of  the  people  in  those  ever-increas- 
ing hectic  crowds?  Where  were  their  souls?  How 
many  of  them  had  been  into  a  church  that  day? 
How  many  had  even  remembered  to  pray  ?  Should 
prayer  be  kept  as  the  expression  of  fear,  while 
drunkenness  and  debauchery  stood  for  relief? 

In  the  afternoon  Theodora  made  her  way  home 
through  streets  that  were  growing  well-nigh  im- 
passable. At  the  house  she  found  Dr.  Powers, 
who  had  run  down  from  Grosvenor  to  see  the  cele- 
bration. Mrs.  Stuyvesant  suddenly  decided  that 
they  must  all  dine  at  one  of  the  quietest  of  the  big 
hotels,  in  order  to  watch  the  crowds.  Her  physi- 
cian could  not  dissuade  her. 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  369 

"What  difference  will  it  make  whether  I  eat  my 
dinner  there  or  here?"  she  insisted.  "I  mean,  as 
far  as  my  health  is  concerned.  You  will  be  there 
to  take  care  of  me.  And  this  is  probably  the  great- 
est day  the  world  will  ever  see.  Theodora,  tele- 
phone and  ask  whether  you  can  get  a  table  at  the 
— .  Use  my  name.  Then  invite  Mr.  Lorrimer 
and  his  daughter  to  join  us.  I'd  ask  Van,  but  of 
course  he'll  be  flying  off  to  some  gayer  party.  A 
quiet  affair  like  ours  would  bore  him." 

Theodora  succeeded  in  getting  the  table  and  the 
guests.  "How  gay  we  shall  be,  with  our  two 
beaux!"  cried  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  "One  man  to  a 
pair  of  women  isn't  a  bad  proportion  for  an  im- 
promptu war-time  dinner." 

They  were  glad  enough  for  their  "beaux"  when 
they  reached  the  hotel.  It  was  jammed.  Halls, 
lobbies,  dressing-rooms,  were  almost  impassable. 
Mrs.  Winthrop  was  well-nigh  dazed — she  had 
never  seen  anything  approaching  it.  Dr.  Powers 
and  Theodora  were  concerned  for  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 
"We  must  keep  a  sharp  watch  over  her,"  said  the 
physician,  in  a  low  voice.  "She  shouldn't  be 
here  at  all." 

It  wasn't  long  before  they  decided  that  they 
should  none  of  them  be  there  at  all.  Each  mem- 
ber of  the  party  kept  this  conviction  secret,  how- 
ever. They  all  smiled,  and  tried  to  chat  above  the 
din,  and  to  pretend  that  there  was  nothing  incon- 
gruous between  their  feelings  and  their  surround- 
34 


3?o  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

ings;  but  the  fact  remained  that  they  were  in 
the  midst  of  a  Bacchanalian  orgy.  Bars  were  let 
down  and  license  reigned  supreme.  Less  than 
twenty-four  hours  after  the  first  authentic  word  of 
the  Armistice,  and  many  hours — many  weeks  and 
months — before  actual  peace  and  victory,  the  city 
was  drunk,  debauched,  disgusting. 

It  grew  harder  and  harder  for  the  members  of 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  party  to  hide  their  distaste  for 
the  scene  around  them.  Many  another  party 
must  have  felt  the  same  way  on  that  awful  night ; 
but  hers,  being  composed  of  particularly  thought- 
ful persons,  was  particularly  out  of  its  element. 
The  hostess  suddenly  proposed  going  home. 
"  Let's  get  out  of  this  din,"  wa^s  the  way  she  put  it. 
"We  can  have  some  coffee  and  nuts  and  port 
around  my  library  fire,  and  I  think  we  shall  be 
much  better  off.  I  don't  know  how  it  strikes  the 
rest  of  you,  but  I  don't  feel  decent  here." 

It  was  with  genuine  relief  that  her  party  ac- 
cepted her  proposal.  As  well  as  they  could,  they 
made  their  way  through  screaming,  jostling,  ma- 
niacal crowds — past  many  sights  which  were  dis- 
tasteful, and  some  which  were  obscene,  till  they 
finally  reached  their  motor  and  resigned  themselves 
to  a  slow  homeward  progress. 

Inside  the  car,  they  sat  silent  and  depressed — a 
sinister  sensation  of  dread  bearing  down  upon  them. 
Was  this  what  relief  would  mean  to  the  world? 
Was  this  the  way  that  it  would  be  expressed? 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  371 

Theodora  was  the  first  one  to  speak.  "The 
awful  thing,"  she  said,  "is  that  nearly  all  those 
crazy  people  tonight  must  have  someone  they  love 
'over  there.'  How  do  they  know  their  own  boys 

are  safe,  and  not  lying  cold  and  dead She 

bit  her  lip  to  still  its  trembling. 

"Exactly,"  cried  Miss  Lorrimer  eagerly .  "That's 
what  I  kept  thinking.  The  victory  was  won  by 
the  boys  out  there.  They  fought  for  it,  and  we're 
celebrating  it.  And  even  though  we  know  that 
many  of  them  are  filling  nameless  graves,  many 
facing  long  lives  in  which  they  are  never  to  see 
again,  never  to  walk  again,  never  to  be  care-free  and 
happy  again,  we  can  forget  them  all  and  act  like 
drunken  savages.  It's  simply  awful!" 

"Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  her  father — and  his 
voice  was  sad — "perhaps  we  have  expected  too 
much.  We  must  make  allowance  for  relief 

"And  mob-psychology,"  put  in  Dr.  Powers. 

"Yes.  Yet  even  with  due  consideration  for 
such  things,  I  must  confess  to  bitter  disappoint- 
ment. Nothing  is  more  lovely  than  merriment, 
when  it  is  appropriate.  But  like  everything  else 
in  the  world,  it  is  hideous  when  out  of  place.  This 
Victory  night  should  have  been  so  special  a  thanks- 
giving, such  an  occasion  for  deep  and  solemn 
gratitude;  and  here  it  is,  turned  into  a  cheap  Bac- 
chanale,  noisy  and  vulgar  and  indecent — nothing 
but  an  exaggerated  New  Year's  Eve.  I  couldn't 
help  wondering  how  many  of  the  people  we  saw 


372  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

had  been  in  church  today — or  even  on  their 
knees— 

"Oh,  surely  they  must  have  prayed"  cried  Mrs. 
Winthrop. 

Mr.  Lorrimer  shook  his  head.  "Did  you  get 
the  impression  of  anything  that  might  have  re- 
sulted from  prayer?"  he  said,  "or  even  from 
thought?  No,  I  confess  to  being  stunned.  For 
the  past  year  and  a  half  I  have  listened  to  more 
tales  of  sadness,  more  pleas  for  prayers,  than  ever 
before  in  my  whole  life,  and  into  my  heart  had 
crept  the  hope  that  at  last  the  world  was  growing 
simpler  and  better — that  it  was  being  purged. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  suppose  a  priest  is  out  of  place  in  a 
crowd  like  tonight's." 

"Then  a  doctor  is,  too,"  said  Dr.  Homans 
shortly.  "Any  man  who  has  ever  watched  physi- 
cal suffering,  or  who  knows  anything  of  surgery  and 
of  permanent  bodily  crippling,  must  turn  sick  over 
such  heartlessness  as  we  saw  tonight.  I  was 
certainly  as  much  out  of  place  as  you  were." 

"And  so  was  I,"  cried  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  "An 
old  woman  who  is  neither  priest  nor  physician,  but 
whose  span  of  days  is  nearly  run,  and  whose  darling 
boy  is  overseas!  What  could  I  do,  but  hate  the 
callousness  around  me?  You  must  have  hated  it, 
too,"  she  added,  turning  to  Theodora,  "yet  you're 
young  enough,  Heaven  knows!  But  you're  not 
entirely  heartless!" 

Yes,  they  had  all  hated  it — young,  middle-aged, 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  373 

and  old.  They  had  recognized  it  as  superficial, 
inadequate,  and  out  of  keeping.  And  this  was  be- 
cause each  one  of  them  had  sufficient  brains,  suffi- 
cient heart,  and  sufficient  habit  of  introspection,  to 
be  something  better  than  a  mere  screaming  unit 
in  the  cheap  and  noisy  crowd  that  had  turned  the 
world's  greatest  victory  celebration  into  a  vulgar 
bedlam. 

Once  at  home  and  clustered  around  the  fire  in 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  library,  they  resumed  their  dis- 
cussion. "Perhaps  tonight  may  not  have  been 
indicative,  after  all,"  observed  Mr.  Lorrimer 
rather  lamely.  It  was  his  business  to  believe  the 
best  of  everyone,  and  the  process  was  often  la- 
boured and  sometimes  stultifying — but  that  is  one 
of  the  problems  a  priest  must  face.  He  must  ac- 
knowledge the  truth  and  condemn,  or  shut  his 
eyes  and  pray. 

"Indicative?"  cried  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  "It  was 
indicative  of  heartlessness,  at  the  very  least. 
Germany's  request  for  an  armistice  didn't  do 
away  with  any  of  the  suffering  in  the  world. 
Think  of  France !  Old  and  tired !  Even  her  little 
children  are  old  and  tired.  Think  of  Belgium, 
bleeding  at  every  pore.  Think  of  England,  with 
her  sad  homes;  and  of  poor  Serbia,  starving  while 
we  gorge;  and  of  Armenia,  nearly  wiped  out  of 
existence;  and  then  think  of  tonight!  Oh,  it  was 
sickening." 

"To  me,"  said  Dr.  Powers,  so  slowly  and  so 


374  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

quietly  as  to  give  a  peculiar  force  to  his  words, 
"to  me,  the  world  has  long  seemed  like  a  very  sick 
man — a  man  who  has  lived  far  from  purely.  He 
thinks  he's  going  to  die.  He's  frightened.  He's 
repentant.  If  by  any  miracle  his  life  can  be  saved, 
he's  willing  to  promise  anything  in  the  way  of  fu- 
ture reform.  And  he  really  believes  he's  sincere. 
He'll  live  simply,  he'll  work  cleanly,  he'll  give  up 
all  his  bad  habits,  and  go  to  church,  and  say  his 
prayers — oh,  I've  seen  many  a  death-bed  repen- 
tance, and  so,  doubtless,  have  you."  He  turned  to 
Mr.  Lorrimer,  who  nodded. 

"And  then,"  continued  Dr.  Powers,  "just  tell 
such  a  man  that  he's  going  to  get  well!  What 
becomes  of  his  good  resolutions  and  his  new  right- 
eousness? They're  gone.  The  first  things  he 
demands  are  a  cigar  and  a  drink ;  the  first  thing  he 
chuckles  over  is  the  new  deal  he's  going  to  put 
through,  and  he  decides  on  the  lawyer  who  can 
best  keep  him  out  of  jail.  .  .  .  Well,  that's 
what  you're  going  to  see  this  reprieved  old  world 
doing  before  you'll  believe  it  possible." 

"Oh,  no"  cried  Theodora  sharply.  "Not 
jorgetr 

Dr.  Powers  looked  at  her,  and  there  were  sym- 
pathy and  sadness  in  his  shrewd  eyes.  "Yes,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  "forget.  Forget  everything — 
fright,  repentance,  good  resolutions,  wholesome 
work,  the  simple  life,  everything.  The  world  has 
always  forgotten  easily,  and  it  always  will."  . 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  375 

"But  not  all  of  us,"  cried  the  girl. 

"No,  not  all  of  us — and  in  just  that  fact  lies 
possible  salvation.  It  all  depends  upon  how  many 
of  us  remember,  and  how  strong  we  are,  and  how 
hard  we're  willing  to  work  without  growing  dis- 
couraged. But  we're  going  to  be  saddened  every 
day  of  our  lives.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  be  saying 
good-night." 

"  So  must  I,"  said  Mr.  Lorrimer,  rising.  Every- 
one was  dispirited,  yet  this  talk  had  been  a  tonic. 
It  left  the  feeling  that  hope  was  not  entirely  lost 
and  that  help  was  still  possible.  But  it  certainly 
did  not  leave  the  feeling  of  a  regenerate  world, 
clean  and  simple,  purged  of  the  old  sins,  relieved 
of  the  old  problems — a  place  where  the  lion  and  the 
lamb  could  lie  down  peacefully,  side  by  side. 

When  the  guests  had  departed,  Theodora  made 
her  early  office  hours  an  excuse  for  going  to  bed. 
"You  see,"  she  remarked  to  her  mother  and  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant,  "I  must  be  off  in  the  morning  before 
either  of  you  two  sleepyheads  is  up." 


CHAPTER   XXI 

BUT  as  it  happened,  Theodora  wasn't  "off  in 
the  morning,"  as  she  had  expected  to  be. 

Before  seven  o'clock,  one  of  the  maids  tapped  at 
her  door.  There  was  a  telegram  for  Mrs.  Stuy- 
vesant.  Should  she  be  called,  or  would  Miss 
Winthrop  attend  to  it? 

"  I'll  take  it,  Mary,"  said  Theodora.  She  opened 
the  message  and  ran  her  eyes  hastily  over  it,  then 
with  a  low  cry  of  horror  and  with  hand  pressed  to 
heart,  she  hurriedly  re-read  the  words,  in  a  vain 
effort  to  discount  their  meaning.  After  that  she 
simply  stood  frozen,  her  eyes  staring  into  space  and 
her  lips  repeating  mechanically,  "Oh,  God,  don't 
let  it  be  true.  Please  don't  let  it  be  true! " 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Winthrop?"  demanded  the 
frightened  maid.  She  had  lived  in  the  house  since 
long  before  the  time  Theodora  had  first  entered  it, 
and  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  servants  was 
devoted  to  the  girl.  "Can't  I  do  anything  for  you, 
Miss  Winthrop?  "  the  poor  soul  repeated  in  distress 
But  Theodora  seemed  stone-deaf  to  her  voice. 

"There  now,  sit  down  till  you  feel  better." 
Mary  drew  a  chair  forward  and  almost  pressed  the 

376 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  377 

inert  figure  into  it.  Theodora's  eyes  were  still 
wide  and  far-away,  but  her  lips  had  ceased  to  move. 
"Sit  there,  now,"  repeated  the  kind-hearted  serv- 
ant, "till  I  run  and  fetch  Mrs.  Winthrop." 

When  the  two  came,  they  found  Theodora  in  a 
transport  of  grief.  She  had  flung  her  arms  wide 
on  a  near-by  table  and  bowed  her  head  on  them. 
Lying  so,  she  had  given  herself  up  to  her  sorrow. 
Her  entire  frame  was  convulsed  with  almost 
noiseless  sobs. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,  what  is  it?"  cried 
the  poor  mother,  while  Mary  stood  by,  a  prey  to 
the  easily  excited  tears  of  her  class  and  race.  "  Tell 
mother,  my  baby,  what  is  it?" 

"Alan,"  almost  whispered  the  girl,  and  the  par- 
ent's heart  stood  still  in  fear.  Noticing  the  tele- 
gram on  the  floor,  she  picked  it  up  with  one  hand 
while  with  the  other  she  never  ceased  caressing 
the  poor  bent  head.  To  her  eyes  leaped  the 
dreadful  words,  "Killed  in  action,  Captain  Alan 
Beeckman" — and  the  negligible  balance.  With  a 
low  cry  of  pity,  the  mother  threw  both  arms  tightly 
around  her  poor  hurt  child  in  an  agony  of  futile 
sympathy.  To  think  that  she  could  do  nothing  to 
soften  this  blow — nothing  to  comfort! 

Mary,  in  turn,  picked  up  the  message  once  more 
dropped  on  the  floor,  and  her  immediate  grief — 
being  far  less  deep — was  distinctly  more  voluble. 

"Not  Mr.  Alan!  Not  him!  Oh,  the  poor  soul 
—the  poor  soul!  And  him  so  strong  and  brave, 


378  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

and  that  pleasant  with  everybody!  He  was  the 
kindest-hearted  gentleman  I  ever  seen.  I  never 
seen  him  that  he  didn't  give  me  a  smile.  'Well, 
Mary, '  he'd  say,  just  as  nice — he  always  give  me 
my  name.  .  .  .  This  will  kill  the  madam  when 
she  comes  to  know  it.  He  was  the  apple  of  her 
eye.  May  the  Lord  curse  them  that  done  this 
thing!" 

Mrs.  Winthrop  finally  roused  herself  to  stem  the 
tide  of  the  girl's  mournful  eloquence.  "Don't 
mention  this  downstairs  yet,  Mary,"  she  warned. 
"We  must  decide  how  to  tell  Mrs.  Stuyvesant." 
And  that  was  the  first  speech  that  seemed  to 
penetrate  Theodora's  consciousness. 

"How  can  we  tell  her?"  she  asked.  "Oh, 
mother—"  and  again  she  fell  to  sobbing. 

Eventually,  Mary  was  despatched  to  the  tele- 
phone to  send  two  messages — one  to  Dr.  Homans 
asking  him  to  come  at  once,  and  the  other  to  Theo- 
dora's office  saying  that  she  would  not  be  there 
that  day. 

After  the  maid  had  gone,  Theodora  began  to 
talk  in  broken  snatches.  Sad  as  were  her  words, 
they  were  a  relief  from  that  frozen  silence,  that 
noiseless  sobbing. 

"Just  think,  mother,"  she  said,  "last  night  was 
only  last  night!  It  seems  ten  years  ago.  And  this 
was  true  then." 

After  a  bit  she  spoke  again.  "  I'm  thankful  this 
didn't  happen  last  summer  when  my  darling  was 


Poor  Dear  Theodora.!  379 

wounded.  At  least,  he  had  time  to  know  of  my 
love  and  to  tell  me  of  his.  But,  oh,  mother, 
mother,  that  makes  it  all  the  harder  to  give  h  im 
up.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  To  think  of  that  little  bit 
of  far-away  happiness  being  all  that  I  shall  ever 
have!  I  must  live  on  those  few  letters  for  the  rest 
of  my  life." 

" I  know,  my  child,  I  know!  And  you  so  richly 
deserve  happiness.  All  your  life  you've  been  my 
good,  good  daughter — so  plucky  and  sweet  and 
brave!  .  .  .  My  great  loss  came  to  me,  dear, 
when  I  was  scarcely  older  than  you,  and  I  was  left 
with  a  little  fatherless  baby " 

"Ah,  that  was  where  you  were  fortunate!  You 
had  your  baby,  and  you  had  the  name  of  the  man 
you  loved.  There  was  at  least  the  memory  of  a 
few  happy  years.  I  have  nothing.  Nothing. 
Not  a  handclasp,  not  a  single  caress,  not  a  farewell. 
Just  a  few  letters  that  I  shall  read  and  re-read  all 
the  rest  of  my  life.  .  .  .  Oh,  mother,  I'm  thank- 
ful to  have  even  them — little  as  they  are." 

Presently  came  Mary  to  say  that  Dr.  Homans 
was  downstairs  and  wanted  to  see  Miss  Winthrop. 

It  was  a  very  grave  conference  that  they  held. 
The  doctor,  knowing  nothing  of  Theodora's  per- 
sonal loss  and  attributing  her  tear-ravaged  face 
to  sympathy  for  the  family  sorrow,  asked  her  to 
break  the  news  to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant. 

"Someone  must  do  it,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  sure 
you  would  be  the  best  one.  You  are  so  tender 


380  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

with  her,  and  she  is  so  devoted  to  you.  Her 
relatives  seem  to  be  scattered  or  dead.  Will  you 
undertake  it,  Miss  Winthrop?  I  will  be  near,  with 
the  restoratives." 

"Oh,  Dr.  Homans!  Suppose  the  shock  should 
kill  her!  I'd  never  get  over  the  feeling  that  I'd 
bungled.  You  know  you've  always  warned  me 
against  excitement " 

"Yes,  but  I  meant  the  excitement  of  temper, 
rather  than  of  sorrow.  Sorrow  is  quieter,  less 
dangerous — at  her  age,  especially.  Nature  seems 
to  blunt  its  edge  providentially  to  the  old.  At  any 
rate,  the  issue  cannot  be  avoided.  Mrs.  Stuyve- 
sant  must  be  told.  The  only  question  is  whether 
you  are  willing  to  undertake  the  task." 

"Couldn't  I  do  it?"  ventured  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

"No,  mother,"  said  the  girl  with  sudden  resolve. 
"I  believe  Dr.  Homans  is  right.  I'm  the  one  to 
do  it."  After  a  little  more  talk  and  some  advice, 
she  professed  herself  ready.  While  hard,  it  was 
probably  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened 
to  her  under  the  circumstances.  In  thinking  of 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  she  was  forced  to  stop  thinking 
of  herself  to  a  certain  extent. 

The  task  proved  much  simpler  than  she  had 
dared  hope.  Her  face  spoke  for  her  the  moment 
she  entered  the  room. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  old  lady  quickly  and 
sharply. 

Theodora  went  and  knelt  on  the  floor  by  her 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  381 

side,  taking  a  veined  and  knotted  hand  in  both  her 
young  strong  ones.  "I've  had  bad  news,"  she 
answered  simply. 

"Your  cousin?" 

Theodora  shook  her  head. 

"My  boy?"  Then  before  Theodora  could 
answer  a  word — "I  knew  it.  He  is  dead.  Alan 
is  dead.  I  knew  it." 

Her  grief  was  heart-breaking  in  its  stoic  calm. 
She  asked  no  questions — even  the  thought  that 
another  few  days  would  have  seen  the  war  over  and 
Alan  safe  did  not  seem  to  add  an  extra  poignancy 
to  her  grief,  as  it  had  to  the  grief  of  so  many  be- 
reaved ones  all  over  the  world.  The  mere  fact 
that  Alan  was  dead  was  all  that  seemed  to  make 
any  difference  to  his  old  aunt.  That  was  Alpha 
and  Omega — the  beginning  and  the  end.  Details 
were  footless.  They  could  neither  soften  pain  nor 
intensify  it.  Alan  was  dead.  Life  was  darkened. 
The  world  was  cold  and  empty.  Alan  was  dead. 

She  never  even  knew  that  her  physician  was  in 
the  house,  and  after  an  hour  or  so  of  waiting  he  felt 
safe  in  leaving.  It  was  not  until  the  early  even- 
ing that  he  was  hastily  summoned  again.  The 
dreaded  attack  had  come. 

For  hours  they  worked.  At  midnight,  with  the 
patient  dozing  under  opiates,  the  doctor  pro- 
nounced the  crisis  once  more  past. 

"It  is  surely  an  incomprehensible  plan,"  he 
said,  shaking  his  head.  "Once  more  we  see  an 


382  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

old  life  spared  and  a  young  one  taken.  It  is  one 
of  the  things  that  we  cannot  understand.  Yet 
there  must  be  a  reason  for  it.  Such  things  don't 
just  happen.  Of  that,  I'm  very  sure." 

And  now  it  was  "poor  dear  Theodora,"  indeed! 

For  the  first  week,  life  merely  drifted.  Every- 
one tried  to  hide  personal  sorrow  and  to  comfort 
others.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  and  Theodora  were,  of 
course,  the  principal  sufferers  in  the  tragedy,  and 
it  drew  them  closer  together  than  ever  before. 
Each  of  them  knew  the  look  of  a  sleepless  night  as 
reflected  in  the  eyes  of  the  other.  Each  knew  that 
even  a  night  which  brought  blessed  sleep  must  also 
bring  the  reawakening  to  the  sickening  sense  of 
loss.  It  was  Theodora's  first  acquaintance  with 
real  sorrow,  and  how  paltry  it  made  all  lesser 
troubles  seem!  As  she  faced  each  new  day,  two 
older  pairs  of  eyes  watched  her  in  aching  pity,  and 
two  older  hearts  planned  and  planned  to  lighten  her 
load  as  much  as  might  be. 

From  the  first  they  talked  of  Alan — talked  of 
him  constantly.  He  was  a  member  of  their  fire- 
side circle.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  brought  out  two 
photographs  of  him — one  in  civilian  clothes  and 
one  in  uniform — and  gave  them  to  Theodora. 
Both  Theodora  and  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  described 
Alan  to  Mrs.  Winthrop.  His  aunt  told  tales  of  his 
boyhood,  and  hunted  up  old  snapshots  and  photo- 
graphs. Theodora  learned  for  the  first  time  that 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  383 

he  was  an  only  child,  and  that  both  of  his  parents 
had  died  before  he  had  come  of  age.  The  friends 
who  came  to  the  house  were  all  told  of  her  engage- 
ment to  Alan,  and  of  how  she  was  now  one  of  the 
family. 

"She  is  my  child  now,"  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  always 
said.  "  I  shall  never  let  her  leave  me." 

With  this  constant  reiteration  as  an  opening 
wedge,  there  came  a  time  when  she  broached  to 
Theodora  the  thing  which  was  now  the  dearest 
wish  of  her  old  heart. 

"  My  life  is  nearly  over,"  she  said.  "  It  cannot 
last  much  longer  now.  But  if  there  has  been  a 
purpose  in  sparing  me,  it  is  surely  that  you  and  I 
might  be  together.  If  Alan  had  lived,  you  would 
have  been  his  wife.  Even  with  this  thing  lying 
in  wait  for  him,  you  should  have  been  married  to 
him  before  he  went  out.  I,  alone,  prevented  it — 
you  surely  will  not  refuse  me  the  right  of  partial 
reparation.  Pride,  my  child,  is  all  very  well;  but 
mercy  is  better.  Whom  have  I  left  but  you?  As 
Alan's  wife  you  would  have  had  an  ample  fortune. 
I  shall  leave  you  exactly  what  I  should  have  left 
him.  It  is  my  great  consolation  that  I  can  thus 
make  you  comfortable  for  life.  And  that  I  may 
have  the  enjoyment  of  you  while  my  days  last,  I 
want  you  to  promise  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of 
working,  and  to  stay  here  with  me.  Your  mother, 
too,  naturally.  It  is  my  only  chance  of  comfort. 
Just  think  how  lost  I  should  be  without  both  of  you ! ' ' 


384  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

Dr.  Romans  added  his  entreaties  that  Theodora 
should  arrange  to  spend  more  of  her  days  with  his 
patient.  "  I  always  feel  safe  when  she  is  in  your 
hands,"  he  said,  "and  you  are  pathetically  neces- 
sary to  her  in  every  way  now." 

And  so  it  came  about.  Pride  and  independence 
didn't  seem  the  wonderful  things  to  Theodora  that 
once  they  had  seemed.  They  were  all  very  well  in 
their  way,  of  course;  but  there  were  much  better 
things,  deeper  things,  than  they.  Pride  and  in- 
dependence had  to  do  exclusively  with  material 
things;  things  of  the  heart  and  spirit  must  unques- 
tionably outweigh  them. 

After  her  long  stretch  of  strenuous  office  days, 
a  more  leisured  life  seemed  at  first  to  be  odd  and 
wrong.  But  Theodora  soon  found  ways  of  filling 
it — ways  that  would  have  been  debarred  her  had 
she  still  been  forced  to  earn  her  daily  bread.  She 
was  quick  to  seize  the  opportunities  for  service. 
Canteens,  hospitals,  work  on  voluntary  committees 
and  on  various  relief  corps  soon  gave  her  all  that 
she  could  do.  The  days  were  never  long  enough. 
Her  black  robes  unsealed  many  lips  for  the  telling 
of  sorrows  and  the  asking  of  comfort  and  help. 
"You've  lost  someone,  too,"  other  black-robed 
women  would  say,  and  immediately  the  bond 
would  be  established.  Maimed  men  in  hospitals 
would  ask  about  her  loss;  there  came  to  them  a 
realization  that  broken  hearts  might  be  as  hard 
to  bear  as  broken  bodies.  And  Theodora,  on  her 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  385 

side,  watching  their  pluck  and  cheerfulness,  could 
never  allow  herself  to  sink  into  anything  as  ignoble 
as  self-pity.  "To  think,"  she  would  say  to  herself, 
"to  think  what  they  are  facing  with  never  a  mur- 
mur!" She  saw  every  degree  of  cripple,  even  to 
the  appalling  "basket"  cases;  she  saw  men  who 
had  given  their  services  to  their  country  only  to 
come  home  and  find  that  the  ones  they  loved  best 
in  the  world,  the  ones  for  whose  sakes  they  had 
been  fighting,  had  died  while  they  had  been  gone. 
Unless  a  heart  is  very  hardened  indeed,  there  is 
nothing  that  so  makes  its  own  burdens  shrink  as 
watching  the  burdens  of  others. 

Then  the  working  women  and  girls!  Never 
again  would  Theodora  think  of  them  without  an 
understanding  sympathy.  She  knew  what  it  was 
to  say  farewell  to  leisure,  to  trudge  off  day  after 
day  at  an  appointed  hour,  to  face  a  ceaseless  repe- 
tition of  the  same  task,  never  to  be  late,  never  to 
be  disagreeable,  always  to  be  cheerful,  always  to 
think  of  possible  sickness  with  a  sinking  of  the 
heart  and  a  frightened  wonder  where  the  daily 
bread  and  butter  would  come  from  if  the  work 
should  cease.  Oh,  Theodora  knew!  She  knew  in 
a  way  she  couldn't  possibly  have  known,  had  she 
viewed  the  situation  from  the  outside  merely. 
Women  there  are  who  give  help,  and  even  sym- 
pathy, to  the  working  girls.  But  Theodora  gave 
understanding. 

And  thus  there  came  about  in  her  a  regeneration 


386  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

of  which  she  was  not  even  conscious.  It  was 
strange  that  she  should  not  have  recognized  the 
effect  of  the  greatest  lesson  she  had  ever  learned. 
Of  all  her  other  lessons  she  had  been  keenly  aware. 
She  knew  well  what  she  had  learned  when  she  first 
started  out  in  the  world  for  herself  and  went  to  live 
with  Mrs.  Stuyvesant.  She  had  learned  patience 
first,  and  self-control.  She  had  learned  to  hold 
her  tongue,  even  when  she  knew  she  was  right. 
She  had  learned  a  sort  of  humility  that  had  in  no 
wise  lessened  her  self-respect,  but  that  had  rather 
increased  it.  She  had  parted  with  a  certain  pro- 
vincialism. And  she  had  learned,  above  all,  that 
seemingly  haughty  hearts  can  also  be  very  kind 
ones. 

At  Mrs.  Felton's,  too,  she  had  learned  much — 
and  again  consciously.  She  had  learned  the  value- 
lessness  of  theory  as  opposed  to  practice;  she  had 
learned  that  the  beauty  and  perfume  of  life  are 
as  essential  as  its  stern  eugenics.  Also,  she  had 
learned  that  it  is  better  to  mind  one's  own  business 
than  to  mind  that  of  anyone  else. 

During  her  engagement  to  Gerald  Wyatt,  her 
lessons  had  been  principally  those  of  disillusion- 
ment. She  had  lost  somewhat  in  that  period,  in 
that  she  had  grown  a  trifle  callous.  But  she  had 
certainly  learned  at  least  two  useful  lessons:  first, 
that  money  is  by  no  means  the  answer  to  happiness ; 
and  second,  that  marriage  without  love  is  well- 
nigh  a  crime.  It  isn't  enough  that  one  doesn't 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  387 

love  anyone  other  than  one  man;  one  must  love 
that  man. 

It  was  during  her  business  life  that  Theodora 
thought  she  had  learned  the  most.  There,  she 
had  learned  that  a  girl's  own  attitude  is  her  best 
protection — that  rarely  is  an  unwilling  girl  vicious- 
ly and  permanently  pursued.  She  had  learned 
that  kindliness  does  not  necessarily  mean  intimacy, 
and  that  it  rarely  fails  of  effect  and  response;  that 
petty  cheating  does  not  pay  in  the  long  run;  that 
employers  generally  prove  to  have  rather  level 
heads  and  decidedly  decent  hearts  in  the  eventual 
show-down;  that  boasting  deceives  no  one  very 
long,  and  that  innate  unassuming  breeding  is  al- 
ways recognized;  that  morality  and  decency  vary 
as  greatly  in  one  class  as  in  another;  and  that  dis- 
couragement is  rarely  as  black  as  it  first  looks. 

From  Alan  and  from  his  love,  Theodora  had 
learned  the  meaning  of  happiness — that  wonderful 
lesson  that  makes  life  blossom  like  Aaron's  rod  of 
old.  And  with  that,  she  would  have  told  you  that 
her  lessons  had  ceased. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  sorrow  had  taught  her  the 
greatest  lesson  of  all.  It  had  taught  her  tolerance ; 
it  had  taught  her  softness;  it  was  teaching  her  the 
triumphant  answer  to  that  sublime  question :  Oh, 
Grave,  where  is  thy  victory? 

Theodora  had  always  been  plucky  and  she  had 
always  been  honest.  Honesty  was  the  ground- 
work of  her  character,  and  its  reverse  side  had  been 


388  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

a  hot  intolerance  for  all  injustice  and  all  deceit. 
This  intolerance,  her  uncompromising  honesty  had 
forced  her  to  proclaim.  When  Mrs.  Winthrop 
would  preach  nervously  .against  what  she  termed 
<(  sharpness,"  Theodora  would  laugh  lightly  at  her 
mother's  timidity.  With  all  the  modesty  in  the 
world,  she  yet  couldn't  help  realizing  that  her  char- 
acter was  stronger  than  her  mother's.  She  adored 
that  mother,  but  she  thought  her  a  little  fearful, 
a  little  meek.  She,  Theodora,  must  be  unhamp- 
ered in  showing  scorn  of  whatever  she  considered 
unworthy.  Over  the  sad  and  the  weak  and  the 
oppressed  she  could  ache  with  a  protecting  pity; 
but  at  the  oppressor,  and  at  all  injustice  and  deceit, 
she  must  be  free  to  rant  hotly. 

And  now,  suddenly,  she  no  longer  wanted  to 
rant.  The  cloak  of  pity  and  tolerance  spread  its 
soft  edges  even  over  her  pet  aversions.  It  was  not 
that  she  disliked  them  any  less,  but  she  felt  that 
their  punishment  was  not  her  affair.  She  was  too 
busy  with  love  to  have  time  for  hate;  sinners  would 
undoubtedly  be  punished,  but  she  was  content  to 
leave  their  punishment  to  hands  more  powerful 
than  her  own — hands  in  which  no  task  could  fail. 
Where  once  she  had  said,  "God  is  love,  but  He  is 
also  just,"  she  now  said,  "  God  is  just,  but  He  is  also 
love."  And  the  difference  is  greater  than  may  at 
first  appear. 

Strangely  enough,  with  all  her  acuteness,  when 
Theodora  first  noted  this  change  in  herself  she  set 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  389 

it  down  as  a  weakness.  The  time  was  fast  coming 
when  it  would  be  an  integral  part  of  her  character, 
but  as  yet  it  was  only  a  new  habit  of  mind.  And 
she  actually  thought  of  it  as  a  weakness.  "I'm 
growing  old,"  she  would  say,  "and  I've  lost  my 
snap.  But  never  mind!  There  isn't  time  to 
worry  over  it  when  there's  so  much  to  be  done." 

Once  in  awhile,  some  tale  of  injustice  would 
waken  the  old  spark,  but  quick  on  its  heels  would 
come  reaction.  When  tempted  to  condemn  the 
contrast  between  the  triumphal  progress  of  execu- 
tives abroad  and  the  condition  of  maimed  and 
penniless  soldiers  at  home,  Theodora  would  sud- 
denly remember  that  the  great  balance-sheets 
were  bound  to  right  it  all.  Credit  would  ultimate- 
ly go  where  it  belonged.  What  mattered  short- 
lived pomp?  It  is  a  clever  mortal  who  can  bluff 
his  Maker!  ....  When  assailed  with  hot 
hatred  for  the  arch-fiends  who,  after  plunging  a 
universe  into  mourning  and  pain,  had  temporarily 
escaped  punishment  and  achieved  seeming  safety, 
Theodora  first  raged,  and  then  thought:  "What 
good,  after  all,  will  it  do  them?  They  can't  get 
away  from  God!"  Which  was  merely  proof  that 
she  was  achieving  a  longer  vision ;  she  was  learning 
resignation,  coupled  with  faith  in  the  promise  of 
old:  "Vengeance  is  mine.  I  will  repay,  saith  the 
Lord." 

But  Theodora  didn't  recognize  her  new-born 
gift.  She  thought  she  was  growing  old  and  losing 


3QO  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

her  snap.  Which  merely  goes  to  show  that  we 
can  get  a  better  perspective  of  any  picture,  than  of 
the  one  we  are  in! 

When  Theodora  had  been  in  mourning  some  six 
weeks  or  two  months,  there  came  to  her  one  day 
two  letters  in  the  same  post,  and  both  in  Alan's 
writing.  She  stared  at  them  a  moment  in  stupe- 
faction, and  then  she  understood.  Alan  had 
written  them  just  before  he  was  killed.  They  had 
been  posted  either  just  before,  or  just  after,  his 
death,  and  delayed  in  delivery.  Precious  as  they 
were,  she  felt  that  the  reading  of  them  would  be 
one  of  the  most  heart-breaking  tasks  she  had  faced. 
They  were  almost  like  a  message  from  beyond  the 
borders  of  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THEODORA  and  her  mother  sat  in  excited  con- 
versation. The  girl's  cheeks  flamed,  her  eyes  were 
deep  wells  of  wonder  and  bliss,  and  there  was  that 
in  her  face  which  made  Mrs.  Winthrop's  heart  sing 
with  thankfulness. 

"It  must  be  true,"  said  the  girl,  for  at  least  the 
twentieth  time.  "You  see  the  dates,  mother — 
December  the  fourth  and  the  ninth.  He  speaks 
of  the  armistice  coming  ten  days  after  he  was 
wounded,  and  of  how  he  has  been  entirely  without 
letters  in  the  hospital — you  know  all  my  late  ones 
were  returned  to  me.  You  see,  he  says  he'll  have 
to  stay  in  the  Bordeaux  hospital '  a  long  time  yet.* 
Mother,  it  simply  must  be  true!  There's  been  no 
fighting  since  the  date  of  these  letters.  They 
couldn't  both  be  dated  wrong.  And  anyhow,  he 
writes  of  the  armistice.  There  can't  be  any  mis- 
take. I  was  afraid  to  believe  it,  but  it's  true. 
This  wonderful  thing  is  true.  What  have  I  ever 
done  to  deserve  it?  What  have  I  done?" 

All  this  was  more  than  an  hour  after  the  first 
reading  of  the  letters.  Theodora  had  been  puz- 
zled, then  incredulous,  then  wild  with  hope — albeit 

39i 


392  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

fearful  to  believe.  She  couldn't  bear  another 
heart-break — another  snatching  away  of  the  cup 
of  happiness.  She  had  carried  the  letters  to  her 
mother's  room,  and  together  the  two  women  had 
allowed  themselves  to  be  convinced.  With  con- 
viction had  come  a  gratitude  so  deep,  a  joy  so  over- 
whelming, as  to  be  almost  pain.  Relief  from  a 
possible  danger  is  wonderful  enough;  but  relief 
from  an  accepted  sorrow  is  at  first  too  dazzling  to 
be  grasped. 

"The  first  person  I'm  going  to  talk  to,"  said 
Theodora,  "is  Mr.  Lorrimer.  And  the  next  is 
Dr.  Homans.  .  .  .  Mother,  do  you  realize  that 
this  will  have  to  be  broken  to  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  as 
carefully  as  that  other  awful  message " 

"  I  can't  understand  how  the  first  one  ever  came 
to  be  sent,"  mused  the  mother. 

"Just  a  mistake.  When  you  think  of  the  mil- 
lions of  men  who  are  out  there,  you  realize  that 
there  must  be  some  false  reports.  I've  heard  of 
such  cases,  but  I  never  dreamed  of  connecting  them 
with  myself ....  I  should  think  that  the  worst 
thing  about  such  errors  would  be  that  everyone 
who  got  bad  news  would  keep  hoping  for  a  miracle 
like  this." 

"But  for  you  to  be  so  long  without  news " 

"  I  had  to  wait  till  Alan  could  write  himself,  you 
see — more  than  a  month  after  he  was  hurt.  He 
didn't  know  about  the  other  report ;  he  thought  we 
must  know  all  about  him.  And  I  suppose  that  the 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  393 

hospitals  must  be  so  crowded  and  the  nurses' 
hands  full.  .  .  .  Alan  must  have  been  very 
badly  wounded — a  month,  before  he  could  send 
me  a  single  line !  You  see,  he  says  there's  a  chance 
that  he  may  always  limp,  even  after  the  successful 
operation.  .  .  .  Mother?" 

"What,  my  dear  child?" 

"There's  a  thing  that  makes  me  ashamed.  A 
number  of  times  lately  I've  caught  myself  envying 
people  who  had  lost  no  one  in  the  war.  I'd  feel 
hard  and  bitter  about  it — as  though  they  had  been 
specially  favoured  at  my  expense.  Of  course,  I  al- 
ways tried  to  stop  such  thoughts,  but  I'm  ashamed 
now  that  I  even  had  them.  The  idea  of  envying 
anyone  happiness — of  wanting  them  to  feel  the 
way  I've  been  feeling,  instead  of  the  way  I  feel 
now!  No  matter  what  happens  to  me,  I  hope  I'll 
never  do  anything  as  wicked  as  that  again." 

"You  couldn't  help  it,  dear.  You  had  a  bitter 
sorrow  and  you  bore  it  very  bravely.  We  never 
ceased  to  admire  you.  But  I  cannot  excuse  the 
blunder  that  caused  you  such  unnecessary  suffer- 
ing." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl  dreamily.  "Per- 
haps it  was  good  for  me.  ...  I  don't  mean,  of 
course,  that  I'm  glad  I  had  it,  but  I  can  see  that  it 
taught  me  something.  And  without  it  I'd  never 
have  known  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  the 
sort  of  happiness  that  has  come  to  me  now.  I  feel 
as  if  life  wouldn't  be  long  enough  to  pay  my  debt 


394  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

of  gratitude.  I  can't  help  remembering  all  those 
poor  others  who  are  still  where  I  thought  I  was, 
and  who  will  never  find  that  their  sad  news  was  a 
mistake." 

Dr.  Homans  advised  that  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  be 
told  of  this  new  development  as  though  it  con- 
cerned some  stranger,  then  little  by  little  be  led  to 
realize  that  it  was  her  own  nephew  who  was  being 
given  back  to  her  like  a  man  risen  from  the  dead. 

"It  will  be  rather  a  ticklish  piece  of  business," 
he  said.  "Especially  after  that  last  shock.  I 
fear  the  reaction  more  than  I  did  the  original 
effect.  You  must  be  very  careful.  You  read  the 
papers  to  her,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Theodora. 

"Then  I  think  I'd  go  about  it  this  way:  take 
home  an  early  evening  edition  with  you.  Pretend 
you  have  just  read  of  this  strange  case.  First 
merely  give  her  a  plain  statement.  Then  begin  to 
specialize.  Say,  'Why,  the  man  was  a  New 
Yorker.  .  .  .  He  was  a  captain.  .  .  .  He  was 
wounded  ten  days  before  the  Armistice.  .  .  . 
He  was  in  the  Rainbow  Division — the  i65th  Infan- 
try, '  and  so  on.  It  seems  childish,  but  it  is  safer. 
Taking  it  in  bit  by  bit,  being  led  up  to  it  step  by 
step,  the  shock  will  be  lessened ;  she'll  be  gradually 
prepared.  You  must  keep  watching  her  carefully. 
You  know  the  danger  signals.  I'll  be  within  call." 

Whether  or  not  the  plan  was  the  necessary  pre- 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  395 

caution  that  the  physician  considered  it,  it  worked 
perfectly.  When  Theodora,  in  fear  and  trembling, 
said  "the  i65th  Infantry,"  her  task  was  over. 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  suddenly  sat  alert.  Her  hands 
gripped  the  sides  of  her  chair  and  her  head  was 
thrown  proudly  up  with  that  old  vigour  which 
Theodora  had  once  so  greatly  admired,  and  which 
had  all  but  disappeared  of  late. 

"And  his  name  was  Alan  Beeckman,"  she  said 
sharply.  "Thank  God!  Thank  God!.  .  .  Don't 
be  frightened,  child.  I  won't  die.  .  .  .  I'm 
going  to  cry,  of  course;  I'm  no  graven  image. 
I'm  going  to  cry"  (she  was  already  doing  it),  "but 
I'm  going  to  live  to  see  my  boy  come  back — to  give 
him  to  you,  and  you  to  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  boy, 
my  boy!  You  won't  know  your  managing  old 
aunt  in  the  foolish  woman  who'll  be  waiting  to 
take  you  in  her  arms.  .  .  .  Theodora,  what  are 
we  going  to  do  with  all  the  days  that  must  pass 
before  we  can  get  him  back?  How  can  we  fill 
them?  .  .  .  Where's  your  mother?  Go  and 
get  her.  Don't  leave  anyone  out  of  this  day  of 
rejoicing.  Your  mother  will  have  a  son.  You'll 
have  a  husband.  And  I'll  have  the  best  pair  of 
children  in  the  world.  I'll  never  let  them  out  of 
my  sight  again.  Make  up  your  mind  to  that!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  days  both  flew  and 
dragged.  Flew,  when  measured  against  all  the 
happy  and  useful  tasks  which  they  must  hold — 


396  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

dragged,  when  one  took  time  to  look  forward  to 
one's  heart's  desire.  But  the  one  sure  thing  about 
days  is  that  they  will  pass. 

It  was  not  long  before  Ned's  little  wife  returned 
with  her  parents.  A  happier  trio  it  would  be  hard 
to  find.  In  the  days  before  the  war,  Mr.  Gary 
would  probably  have  been  voted  a  bore  by  his 
friends — so  full  was  he  of  pride  and  anecdote. 
But  somehow,  between  the  years  1914  and  1919, 
an  unusually  large  crop  of  human  sympathy  seems 
to  have  been  sown  and  harvested.  The  happiness 
of  others  isn't  the  tiresome  thing  it  once  was. 

"That  boy  of  mine,"  Mr.  Gary  would  say  to  each 
newly  met  friend  and  acquaintance,  "has  made  a 
record  of  which  I  don't  mind  admitting  I'm  rather 
proud.  .  .  .  Went  out  as  a  private,  because  he 
didn't  want  to  waste  time  getting  a  commission. 
Before  he'd  seen  three  months  of  service  he  was  a 
corporal.  Then  a  sergeant.  He's  coming  back  a 
lieutenant — a  first  lieutenant,  if  you  please — and 
with  the  D.  S.  C.  Not  so  bad  a  record?  .  .  . 
Got  his  rank  and  his  decoration  through  about  as 
cool  a  piece  of  courage  as  a  fellow  could  be  capable 
of.  He  and  his  squad  were  surrounded  by  the 
Boches,  but  managed  to  escape.  When  they 
reached  the  American  trenches,  this  boy  of  mine 
found  that  three  of  his  men  had  been  gassed  and 
had  fallen  in  No  Man's  Land.  Wouldn't  desert 
them.  Made  three  separate  trips  back,  all  under 
fire  of  the  enemy's  machine-guns,  and  dragged 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  397 

those  chaps  to  safety  one  at  a  time.  Collapsed 
completely  just  after  landing  the  last  one  inside  our 
lines.  ...  I  must  confess  that  third  trip  back 
into  hell  would  have  appalled  me.  But  he's  as 
modest  about  it  as  a  girl — though  they're  all  that. 
All  insist  they've  done  nothing  at  all.  That's 
why  we  have  to  do  their  bragging  for  them.  .  .  . 
I  can  tell  you,  when  a  man  is  lucky  enough  to  have 
a  son  like  that,  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  much  sense 
in  pretending  not  to  be  proud  of  him!  At  least, 
that's  the  way  I  feel  about  it!" 

After  a  long  time,  news  came  that  Alan  Beeck- 
man  was  well  enough  to  be  sent  home  as  a  "  casual "; 
the  next  word  was  that  he  would  probably  sail  in 
the  near  future.  Then  ensued  a  wait  that  seemed 
interminable,  but  eventually  there  arrived  the 
eagerly  anticipated  telegram:  he  had  landed  at 
Hoboken  en  route  for  Camp  Merritt. 

The  distance  between  Camp  Merritt  and  New 
York  proved  to  be  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  patience 
with  which  further  separation  could  be  borne.  It 
seemed  as  if  miles  of  red  tape  had  to  be  unwound 
before  permission  could  be  obtained  to  see  Alan — 
for  neither  his  aunt  nor  his  fiancee  wanted  that 
first  meeting  to  take  place  in  the  always  crowded 
Hostess  House  just  outside  the  grounds.  And 
in  order  to  get  inside  and  see  him  more  privately, 
a  special  permit  was  necessary. 

It  came  one  evening — as  a  matter  of  fact,  less 


398  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

than  two  days  in  the  wake  of  the  telegram,  and 
those  two  days  had  been  devoted  to  the  various 
sanitary  processes  through  which  all  returned 
soldiers  must  pass — and  the  next  morning  found 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant's  limousine  speeding  over  the 
frozen  roads,  carrying  its  owner,  Theodora  and  her 
mother,  and  Dr.  Homans. 

The  day  had  dawned  at  last — the  wondrous  day 
that  marked  the  termination  of  waiting  and  separa- 
tion, and  that  opened  to  at  least  one  of  that  party 
the  gate  to  the  Garden  of  Delight.  How  the  sun 
blazed  in  a  golden  glory  of  promise,  how  the  air 
pulsed  with  myriads  of  mysterious  messages,  how 
the  heart  of  the  girl  fluttered  in  response  to  their 
call! 

No  one  talked  much — conversation  is  always 
superfluous  in  times  of  deep  happiness,  always  im- 
possible in  times  of  deep  sorrow.  At  best,  it  is 
but  communication  between  minds;  hearts  have 
ever  laughed  it  to  scorn. 

Arrived  at  the  camp,  the  chauffeur  flourished  his 
pass  in  the  face  of  the  picket,  and  bowled  his  party 
triumphantly  to  the  Red  Cross  headquarters  with- 
out further  let  or  hindrance.  It  was  in  that  build- 
ing, that  must  have  seen  so  many  pathetic  partings, 
so  many  blessed  reunions,  that  Alan  was  to  meet 
them. 

The  half -hour  that  they  waited  there  was  longer 
than  most  years.  Suddenly  Theodora,  who  was 
sitting  near  the  window,  sprang  to  her  feet.  ' '  There 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  399 

he  comes,"  she  said  in  a  queer  muffled  voice.  And 
there  indeed,  leaning  on  his  stick  but  making  ex- 
cellent headway,  nevertheless,  came  Alan. 

How  tall  he  was — how  bonny!  Under  his  ser- 
vice cap  his  close-cropped  yellow  hair  gleamed 
crisp  and  shining.  His  shoulders  had  surely  broad- 
ened, and  even  his  stick  and  his  limp  could  not  rob 
him  of  his  jaunty  swing.  There  wasn't,  of  course, 
another  soldier  in  the  camp  as  handsome  as  he! 
Probably  there  wasn't  another  in  the  army !  Sup- 
pose, oh,  suppose,  he  had  never  come  back ! 

They  were  all  standing  when  he  entered,  and 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  called  his  name.  "Alan,"  she 
said — and  he  turned  from  the  crowd  around  the 
desk  where  he  had  been  about  to  make  his  inqui- 
ries, and  faced  them. 

"  My  boy,"  cried  his  aunt,  and  held  out  her  arms. 
But  even  before  he  limped  into  their  embrace,  his 
eyes  found  Theodora's. 

He  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Winthrop  and 
greeted  by  Dr.  Homans.  And  then  somehow — 
neither  of  them  knew  how  it  came  about — he  and 
Theodora  found  themselves  pushed  into  a  little 
room  alone,  and  the  door  shut  between  them  and 
the  world. 

It  was  long  ere  they  had  recourse  to  speech,  but 
after  a  while — beginning  with  broken  murmurs — 
they  started  to  make  up  for  the  long  months  of 
silence.  Dispensing  with  sequence,  breaking  in 


4oo  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

upon  each  other  with  this  memory  and  that,  they 
told  and  listened.  Theodora  would  not  yet  men- 
tion the  terrible  experience  of  the  false  report;  it 
seemed  too  awful  to  tell  a  man  that  you  had  long 
mourned  him  as  dead.  But  she  did  speak  of  the 
returned  soldiers  whom  she  had  been  visiting  in 
hospital,  contrasting  her  own  happy  fortune  with 
the  tragedies  that  had  come  to  some  women. 

"In  the  face  of  what  others  have  to  boar,"  she 
said,  "my  love  seems  selfish.  For  I  can't  think  of 
a  thing  now — really  think — except  just  you  and 
me." 

"That's  enough,  dearest.  What  do  you  suppose 
I  was  spared  for,  if  not  that  we  should  be  happy 
together?" 

"That's  true.  And  it  wouldn't  make  anyone 
else  happier  for  me  to  mourn,  even  if  I  could." 

"Assuredly  not.  Do  you  know,  dearest,  I've 
about  decided  that  love  is  the  biggest  thing  in  the 
whole  world.  Just  think  a  minute!  If  Germany 
had  had  a  particle  of  love  for  her  fellow  men  we'd 
all  have  been  spared  quite  a  bit.  Love  pulled  off 
the  Allied  victory — love  of  freedom,  of  justice,  of 
firesides,  and  of  the  women  and  children  clustered 
around  them.  I  know  it  was  love  that  kept  up  our 
hearts  in  the  trenches,  and  that  gave  us  strength 
to  see  the  thing  through.  Look  out  that  window 
there.  Every  man  that  you  see,  every  man  that 
ever  went  out  to  fight,  came  into  the  world  through 
human  love  and  human  mating.  Back  of  each 


Poor  Dear  Theodora!  401 

one  of  them  is  a  love  story."  He  stopped  suddenly, 
laughing  at  his  own  eloquence.  ' '  You  see  what  you 
have  done  to  me,"  he  said.  "You've  taught  me 
about  love,  till  I  can't  think  of  anything  else." 

Theodora's  eyes  were  wide  with  the  birth  of  a 
new  thought.  She  gazed  into  her  lover's  answer- 
ing eyes,  and  on  beyond  them  down  into  his  heart. 
"I  see,"  she  breathed.  "I  see.  And  we  aren't 
selfish  to  take  our  share  of  this  lovely  thing.  We're 
meant  to  take  it.  And  because  of  it,  people  can  do 
their  part  in  a  way  that  is  bigger  and  better  and 
more  beautiful " 

"Exactly.  And  it  is  by  love  that  women  like 
you  can  wipe  out  the  past  for  chaps  like  me." 

Theodora  was  thinking.  It  was  love  that  had 
made  Ned  pull  himself  up,  and  that  had  turned 
him  so  fine.  It  was  love  that  was  giving  Meta  her 
reward  in  the  boy  she  so  adored.  It  was  love  that 
had  softened  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  so  beautifully. 
"Why,  Alan,"  she  said,  "you're  here  because  two 
people  loved  each  other,  and  I'm  here  because  two 
people  loved  each  other — why,  it  isn't  only  per- 
sonal, at  all.  It's  as  big  as  the  world!" 

"  Bigger,  sweetheart.  It's  as  big  as  the  world — 
and  Heaven  beside." 

"It's  wonderful,"  whispered  Theodora. 

There  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  "Have  you  two 
finished  talking?"  called  someone.  "You've  had 
an  hour,  and  it's  time  to  go  home." 


402  Poor  Dear  Theodora! 

"An  hour?"  cried  Theodora  incredulously. 
With  lips  pressed  deep  in  her  soft  cheek,  her  lover 
murmured,  "Soon,  my  darling,  we  won't  be  count- 
ing hours.  They'll  all  be  ours  together."  .  .  . 
Then  with  arms  entwined,  they  walked  to  the 
door  and  opened  it. 

There  stood  the  three  waiting  ones — Mrs.  Stuy- 
vesant,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  and  Dr.  Homans.  All 
were  smiling,  but  at  least  two  pairs  of  lips  trembled, 
and  two  pairs  of  eyes  glistened  with  unshed  tears. 
And  in  all  three  breasts  the  hearts  were  soft  with 
the  thought  of  love — of  love  past,  present,  and 
future, — and  of  this  girl  and  this  man  who  stood 
transfigured  with  the  revelation  of  its  wonder. 

THE   END 


A  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 


Complete    Catalogues   sent 
on  application 


The 

Road  to  Mecca 

By 
Florence  Irwin 

The  measure  of  a  story  is  not  the  degree 
of  loveliness  possessed  by  its  characters. 
Some  of  the  weakest  and  least  artistic  of 
literary  efforts  are  those  which  centre 
around  impossibly  wonderful  persons. 

The  mere  recital  of  a  woman's  struggle 
for  position  and  pre-eminence  in  the 
world  of  fashion  would  be  a  sordid  story. 
The  tale  of  what  happens  to  the  soul 
that  makes  that  struggle  its  one  and  only 
aim — that  never  lets  the  heart  speak, 
never  lets  the  mind  speak,  on  any  subject 
save  that  one — is  far  from  sordid,  and  it 
is  more  than  a  story. 

Are  there  any  such  souls?  Look  around 
you  and  see. 

Are  there? 


BANKED  FIRES 


By 
E.  W.  SAVI 

Author  of  "The  Daughter-in-Law, " 
"Sinners  All,"  etc. 

The  love  story  of  a  strong  man.  "  His  was  not 
a  petty  nature,  given  to  the  faults  of  the  weak 
and  timid.  He  was  a  daring  and  defiant  sinner, 
risking  damnation,  as  he  had  once  said,  'for  the 
desire  of  his  heart.' "  The  scene  is  partly  Eng- 
land and  partly  India.  Basil  Ring  writes  of 
the  author:  "From  the  very  opening  words  she 
holds  one  with  the  spell  which  only  the  born 
story-teller  possesses.  ...  I  know  of  no  other 
Anglo-Indian  stories  which  transport  one  so  eas- 
ily to  the  interior  of  Hindustan  and  make  it  seem 

so  natural,  and  so  much  a  matter  of  course  to  be 

ti_        »• 
there. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 
Lamp  in  the  Desert 


By 

Ethel  M.  Dell 

Author   of  "  Greatheart,"     "The   Way   of    an    Eagle," 
"  Bars  of  Iron,"  etc. 

The  story  of  a  great  love. 

Once  again  Miss  Dell  transports  us  to  India, 
that  India  which  she  knows  so  well,  the  land 
of  mystery*  intrigue,  and  deep  passion.  She 
shows  us  a  man,  a  strong  man  who  is  ready  to 
sacrifice  fame  and  ambition,  and  even  life 
itself,  to  shield  from  sorrow  the  woman  he 
loves.  In  that  darkest  hour  when  the  young 
mother  realizes  that  she  is  wife  in  name  only, 
even  then  the  memory  of  his  strength  upholds 
her,  and  across  the  desert, — her  bitter  desert 
of  ashes, — the  lamp  still  shines  throughout 
the  darkness  of  pain  and  sorrow  until  the 
dawning  of  their  new  day  of  love  and  perfect 
recompense. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


THE  MOON  POOL 


BY 

A.  MERRITT 


Romance,  real  romance,  and  wonderful  ad- 
venture,— absolutely  impossible,  yet  utterly 
probable  !  A  story  one  almost  regrets  having 
read,  since  one  can  then  no  longer  read  it  for 
the  first  time.  Once  in  the  proverbial  blue 
moon  there  comes  to  the  fore  an  author  who 
can  conceive  and  write  such  a  tale.  Here  is 
one! 

Few  indeed  will  forget,  who,  with  the  Pro- 
fessor, watch  the  mystic  approach  of  the 
Shining  One  down  the  moon  path, — who  follow 
with  him  and  the  others  the  path  below  the 
Moon  Pool,  beyond  the  Door  of  the  Seven 
Lights ; — and  would  there  were  more  charac- 
ters in  fiction  like  Lakla  the  lovely  and  Larry 
O'Keefe  the  lovable. 

Perhaps  you  readers  will  know  who  were 
those  weird  and  awe-inspiring  Silent  Ones. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


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